


a hundred miles through the desert

by acrobats



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bat Family, Canon-Typical Violence, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2019-11-27 17:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 41,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18197330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acrobats/pseuds/acrobats
Summary: Finding himself nearly three decades into the past hadn't been part of Jason's plans for the day, but he could manage. Having no idea how he got there, no clear path home and a recently orphaned Bruce Wayne determined to drag Jason into his search for his parents' killer - that might be a little more complicated.





	1. Chapter 1

Fucking magic.

If there was one thing, just _one thing_ the Red Hood agreed with Batman about, it would have to be his distaste for magic. It was a volatile thing. The rules were different every time, if there were any rules to begin with. Laws of physics, common sense, it defied them all with a casual disregard.

To be fair, his predicament could've been scientific in nature. He appeared to be in an alternate Gotham, and he'd encountered devices designed for dimensional travel in the past. But there was a curious blank in Hood's memory surrounding the events that led to him being zapped to this Gotham, and that had magic written all over it.

He found himself in a rooftop in the Bowery. Hood knew the neighborhood. Staying above street level and blending in the shadows, he found more and more evidence to support his initial assumption. Not much was glaringly out of place, but there was enough. An apartment building that been in the middle of renovation now showed no signs of it. A striking piece of graffiti in a nearby alley wall had disappeared altogether.

This wasn't _his_ Gotham.

Hood had to find a way back. For that he needed connections, resources. Who knew if his counterpart had that in this world? Who knew if he had a counterpart at all? He couldn't be sure there was a Red Hood in this world, or even a Jason Todd. He'd have to tread carefully.

Hood made his way back to his turf slowly, exercising an amount of caution he hadn't needed since his truce with the Bats. Staying undetected by civilians was child's play – staying undetected by other vigilantes, if they existed here, would be a far more complicated task.

He wasn't at all certain they did. Either Hood was doing too good a job at staying out of sight, or there was no one out on patrol. No super-villains causing mayhem, either. It wasn't a quiet night, by any means – crime still ran rampant in this Gotham, but it didn't seem to be the costumed kind. At least not tonight.

He'd have to remain in this reality much longer to draw any conclusions on that front. And that wasn't really in the plans. He just had to figure out enough to find a way home.

He tried some of his safe houses. One he found with tenants inside. The other vacated, no signs of a vigilante having ever passed through. Where the third was supposed to be, the whole apartment block was missing. It was not enough evidence to conclusively deduce that there wasn't another Red Hood running around in this Gotham, but as the hour grew later Hood was forced to admit he'd have to find a motel for the night.

That was fine. He'd slept in worse places. The main challenge would be appearing inconspicuous while wearing protective armor and a shining red helmet. If there was a Batman around, the symbol on his chest wouldn't go unnoticed, either.

He managed to locate a motel that existed in his reality as well, one with a “don't ask, don't tell” policy as long as you paid upfront. Very reluctantly, he stashed his helmet, thigh holsters and guns on the roof of the building next to it, and zipped up his jacket to hide the red bat.

It was far from a perfect solution. Every instinct he had rebelled against leaving his guns and equipment behind. He kept a few knives he could conceal in his clothing, as well as his batarangs and a tracer. It would have to do.

He strolled up to what could only charitably be described as a reception desk, flashing the tired woman behind it an easy grin.

“Evening,” he greeted, hoping he looked more inconspicuous than he felt. “Got any room?”

She watched him blankly. “One night?”

Jason considered it. “For the moment.”

It was a very optimistic estimate that he'd be home by tomorrow night, but at the same time, a lot could happen in twenty four hours. He had no guarantee he'd be able to come back here. He handed over the money and in return she gave him a pair of keys.

“You're in 313,” the woman informed him. “I'd take the stairs. Elevator gets stuck between floors sometimes.”

Jason twirled the keys in his hand. “Gotcha. Thanks.”

He trudged up the stairs, observing the interior carefully. He hadn't stayed there before, only knew the motel indirectly, so he couldn't judge if it was in better or worse shape than in his reality. But it definitely wasn't _good._ There was an obvious dampness problem, condensation easily visible on the walls and ceiling. The floors creaked.

The room itself was tiny but as clear as could be reasonably expected, with sheets that were old and worn but still alright to sleep in. It connected to an even tinier bathroom, with a charming WC and hand shower combo. The water pressure was almost nonexistent, but there was a bucket.

More important to Jason, there was a window. It was barely large enough for a grown man to sneak out of, but Jason managed with some fumbling. Now this was a situation were he wouldn't have minded Dick's horror movie levels of flexibility.

At any rate, he got through and started the steady climb towards the roof. It would've been easier with his grappling guns, but it was nothing he hadn't done before. From there he made the jump over to the next building, relieved to find his stuff where he'd left it, and returned to the room with it.

He shoved everything in the back of the closet for the moment. He'd have to get a bag to carry it around in without alerting anyone. And if this turned out to be not an easily reversible thing, he should look for a more permanent residence. He had a few ideas.

For now though, sleep came first. He was reasonably sure nobody from this world had been alerted to his presence and would be coming after him. He had a comfortable enough bed in a safe enough place. There was no guarantee things would remain that way during his stay in this world, and he needed to get what rest he could.

* * *

Jason woke up early, a little past six. He slipped out through the window again and resolved to case as much of the town as he could before checkout time. He needed to get that bag, and money. He'd been lucky to have cash on him yesterday, but there wasn't much left now, and he had no idea what kind of problems he'd run into.

It took him ten minutes of being outside in broad daylight to piece it together. First there was the way people were dressed, that strange nineties fashion that had been just a little before his time and he'd only seen in photos. Then, there was a pattern in the missing buildings – anything he knew for a fact had been built in the last decade or so was gone.

Knowing the truth and not to eager to confirm it, he made his way to a newspaper stand with a sinking feeling. He cursed under his breath when he saw the date. Not another dimension then. The past. Or the past _in_ another dimension, which would be just peachy.

Twenty eight years. Jason wasn't even born in this time. Neither was Dick. Bruce would be a child. Batman didn't exist. The League didn't exist. This was not good in any conceivable way.

_Alfred_ , a part of him thought childishly. Alfred would be around. But this Alfred wouldn't know him, and before Batman there was no reason why he'd have access to the kind of technology that could get Jason home.

Okay. So that was an inconvenience. A minor roadblock, as it was. It didn't matter. Jason was resourceful. He'd find his way back, maybe not as soon as he had initially hoped. He could hang around in the past until then and wear parachute pants. That was fine. Fun, even. No problems here.

If one thing was clear was that he should stay under the radar. He was pretty sure that not interfering with the timeline was timetravelling 101 and he had no idea what the consequences would be for the present if he did. Not that he would necessarily mind going back and finding some things were different, but –

Nope. No point thinking about it. He should focus on the here and now, which incidentally was more like the here and then. Priority number one: he needed money.

In his current situation, that meant pickpocketing. It was easy enough, for someone like Jason, but it wouldn't take care of anything more than the short term. That was okay. He'd take it one day at a time. And hopefully not too many days would pile up.

When he had enough to last him for a week, emergencies notwithstanding, Jason headed back to the motel. He also snatched a cheap duffel bag from a sporting goods store. He didn't feel great about it, but given the circumstances, he wasn't going to pay for anything he didn't have to.

He found the same woman at the reception, looking even more exhausted than she had yesterday. Jason didn't want to know what her shift schedule was.

He grimaced in sympathy. “Hi. Do you think I could keep the room for another couple of days?”

She shrugged. “Got cash?”

Gotham was still good ol' Gotham, it seemed, even almost three decades in the past. He loved and hated it. But right now, he had to admit that the money talks louder than words policy was working out to his advantage. Nobody even asked him for ID – a good thing too, since he didn't have an identity, strictly speaking. Another thing that would have to change if he was going to be stranded in this time for a while.

* * *

He went out again that night, though the Red Hood didn't. The helmet had never been designed for subtlety. It was more likely to gather unwarranted attention than anything else, and he didn't have an identity to protect here. He was in dark civilian clothing, protective armor sacrificed in case he needed to blend in with a crowd, but again, he brought as many weapons as he could conceal.

He picked up where he'd left off last night and continued reacquainting himself with his city. It was jarring. For everything that was as he remembered, there was something that had changed. He found his feet taking him towards his turf, subconsciously seeking familiar ground.

It was late when he reached Crime Alley. A strange feeling overtook him, displacement mixed with nostalgia. These were the streets that made him, but they weren't. It would be eight years until Jason Todd was born. Twenty until he tried to steal the tires from the Batmobile. Twenty three until –

He stopped himself there. None of these things had happened yet, but they were in the past. Over and done with.

Another thought struck him – these were also the streets were Bruce Wayne was going to lose his parents in, if he hadn't already. It happened on this year. The temptation to intervene returned with a vengeance, because as much of an asshole Bruce could be at times, how could he know something like that would happen to an eight year old child and do _nothing_?

A million thoughts crossed his mind – the chain reaction it would cause, if it would be for better or for worse, maybe not for Bruce himself but for Dick, for Jason, for Tim and Damian and Barbara and Steph and Cass. So many lives changed because of him. If Batman never came to be, if none of them –? Everyone they'd helped and everyone they'd hurt – how the fuck was he supposed to know which was _better?_

God. Damian – Damian might never be born. The others' lives would change, but Damian might lose his altogether. That wasn't – that couldn't be right. That couldn't be _right._

As Jason was panicking, quite stealthily he thought, on a fire escape overlooking the Alley, he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. It was a welcome distraction. He crouched and slid lower to get a better look.

It was a kid. Jason didn't know what he'd been hoping for – a guy with a sign reading 'I am a criminal, take your existential crisis out on me' on his forehead, maybe. He definitely hadn't expected a kid. A boy, couldn't be a day over ten. Probably younger. Well off, if his clothes were anything to go by. What the hell was he doing there? Alone? He would be lucky if he was just robbed blind.

Jason hesitated for a second before jumping down to the street, landing with a soft thud. The kid startled, but looked up at him defiantly. Something in that expression was familiar, even as something about the kid felt out of place.

“Dunno what you think you're doing here, but I can tell you right now it's a bad idea,” Jason said.

The kid gave him an appraising look. His mouth twisted at the corner, in something like disappointment. Whatever he was looking for, he hadn't found it.

“I don't see how that's any of your business,” he replied with what he must have imagined to be great dignity.

“Maybe it is, maybe it isn't, the fact remains that if you stay here much longer you'll be toast,” Jason told him frankly. “Do you know how to get home?”

“Yes, because I'd rely on _your_ assistance if I didn't,” the boy sniffed, apparently offended. “You look awfully trustworthy. Although...do you know these streets well?”

He'd gone from arrogance to open, intense curiosity in less than a second, and the difference was staggering.

“Grew up here,” Jason said.

“Maybe you can be of help,” the boy declared. “I'm investigating. I have money.”

Then it clicked. Holy fucking shit.

“ _Bruce?_ ” Jason choked out.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“ _Bruce?_ ” Jason choked out. Then, through his shock, he caught himself and added, “Bruce Wayne?”

“You recognize me,” little Bruce said. He didn't sound happy about it.

“Yeah, dumbass,” Jason snapped. “I think everyone within twenty miles of Gotham recognizes you. What were you _thinking?_ ”

He could see now what felt off – Bruce's eyes were a muted brown instead of the stunning blue that sometimes made people think he and Jason were actually related. It was hard to notice the tells of contact lenses in this light, but Jason knew what to look for. How in the hell did he even get a hold of contacts? Far too resourceful, even as an eight year old. 

“I told you I was investigating,” Bruce said stiffly. “And who are _you,_ anyway?”

Jason stared at him, numb. The whole situation was throwing him for a loop. But –

“I'm Jason,” he managed. “And I know these streets, so trust me – this isn't a good place to talk.”

Right now what mattered was getting Bruce out of the alley. Jason knew, logically, that nothing would happen to him, because nothing _had_ happened to him, but he couldn't help the terror that seized him. This Bruce was just a little kid.

“This is where my parents died,” Bruce declared, chin jutted out in challenge. Then uncertainty flickered across his gaze, eyes darting around the alley. “I – I need to find –”

For a moment, Jason felt selfish relief – if the Waynes were already dead, he didn't have to grapple with the moral dilemma of saving them or not. He hated himself for it immediately.

He needed to get Bruce home. Who the fuck knew how this little meeting was affecting the timeline. He needed to get Bruce to the manor, quickly, and then avoid him like the plague until he left this time. Possibly after, too, because Jason didn't know how to look his Bruce in the eye when he'd seen him as a child.

 _His_ Bruce. Ha.

“When did they die?” Jason asked. He winced at how blunt it sounded.

“Six days ago. Don't you read the papers?” Bruce returned with a hint of bitterness.

“Alright. So it's been almost a week, and the police has cleared the scene and collected any evidence that might have been here,” Jason tried to reason. “So what was the plan? Obviously you don't need me to tell you that the Alley is dangerous, especially for you. You can't just skulk around here and hope a clue falls from the sky.”

“I'm in disguise,” Bruce argued. “The lenses. My clothes.”

Jason gave his outfit an incredulous look. “What about your clothes?”

“They're casual,” Bruce said in a tone that indicated he thought Jason was very stupid. He tugged on his polo shirt. “Not fancy. No one would bother trying to steal them.”

Jason bristled. “Are you for real? Listen here, you little shit, your shirt alone costs more than people here make in a month. And I assure you everyone who gets a look at you knows it.”

“Oh,” Bruce said, glancing down at himself with a hint of doubt in his expression. He shook his head. “It doesn't change anything. I have to find out who did it.”

“You have to get the hell out of here,” Jason argued intently. He rubbed his eyes with a sigh. “Look, how about this. See that fire escape?”

Bruce nodded cautiously. “What about it?”

That was good. Suspicion was good. He sure as hell shouldn't be trusting people he met in Crime Fucking Alley. Never mind that he never should've been here in the first place.

“I was sitting there before,” Jason said. “Up there we'll be concealed from people on the street while we argue about how _utterly moronic_ what you did was. I can help you climb it.”

“I can climb by myself,” Bruce said with a scowl and immediately set to prove it. Jason was sort of grateful that was the part of the sentence the kid chose to focus on.

And to give credit where credit was due, he did manage it. This Bruce didn't know the first thing about climbing, but he was stubborn. Jason stayed on the street below, looking out for trouble, and did his best to walk the kid through it. It was hard, because even at eight years old Bruce was a pig-headed little shit who thought he knew best. Jason made sure he was settled first and then climbed after him.

Bruce was watching him with a frown, arms crossed over his chest. Jason suspected he was annoyed Jason made his way up faster than him. God, this version of Bruce reminded him of Damian.

“Alright, kid,” Jason said. “Now, what the hell do I have to do to convince you to go home?”

“What do you even care?” Bruce shot back. It was disconnecting to see any incarnation of Bruce wearing his emotions so openly. “If you're not going to help, you can leave me alone.”

“Like five minutes ago you were going on about how you didn't want to rely to my assistance,” Jason murmured, shaking his head. “We've gone over this. Whatever evidence was there, the police have it. You're only putting your life in danger by being here, don't you _get_ that?”

“ _You_ don't get it,” Bruce hissed, suddenly furious. “I don't know what else to do! I have to find him. I _have_ to.”

Whatever frustration Jason was feeling deflated.

The sun rose in the East, Gotham was a dangerous place, and Thomas and Martha Wayne were dead. Those were facts of life. Jason had heard about their deaths even before he met Bruce. The ghost of them was always were Bruce was. But this was different – this was a Bruce who had only just lost his parents and hadn't yet learned how to live with that fact.

And Jason could do nothing to help him.

He knew that Bruce had looked for his parents' killer. He knew that Joe Chill had eventually been arrested, although the details eluded him. He didn't know if Bruce was involved in it, or if the police had just done their job for once. He wasn't sure when it happened, either. And he feared everything he told little Bruce risked creating ripples.

“I'm not telling you not to,” he said. “Just – maybe you should...explore a different avenue.” Jason had no idea why he was phrasing things in the way he would to convince the adult Bruce. “Did you get a good look at the culprit?”

“No.” Bruce sounded ashamed. “He – he was wearing a hat. A beanie. His hands were shaking.”

He hated the way the kid's voice broke. Jason would like nothing better than to track Joe Chill down and put a bullet in him. Not that Bruce – the _actual_ Bruce – would appreciate it. Not that he could or would go through with it given all the time travel complications.

“That's okay,” he reassured.

He barely recognized his own voice. Despite his reputation as the baddass antihero and all, Hood could sometimes be gentle, when he was rescuing small children. But that was different, that was an act entirely for their benefit. _This_ was getting to him. _You're emotionally compromised,_ a voice that sounded far too much like Bruce's mocked him.

“It's not,” Bruce murmured. “The policeman asked me too. They wanted me to describe him to a sketch artist, but I didn't...it wasn't enough. If I'd seen him better maybe they could find him.”

Right. So the self-blame had started pretty early on, then. Good to know.

“Nothing to say they won't,” he pointed out. “Sure, a description would help, but there are other things they can do, other ways to find him.”

Bruce looked skeptical. “Like what?”

“He was trying to rob your parents, right?” Bruce nodded, something dark flickering across his face. “Well, did he actually get anything?”

“My mother's pearl necklace,” Bruce whispered. He turned his head away, expression hardening. “Why is that important?”

“It's not exactly an inconspicuous item. If he's smart he's gonna be careful when he tries to sell it, but with a little luck the police could track it down. Find the pearls, find the man.”

Bruce frowned. “You make it sound simple.”

The implied _so why haven't they found him yet?_ went unsaid.

“Sometimes it just takes time,” Jason said. “He wouldn't want to sell it too soon after, but the longer he waits the more he risks having the necklace found on his person. I don't know what other evidence the police have, but assuming they were pursuing this lead, they'd have to wait him out.”

“So you're suggesting that I wait, too.” Bruce's voice was bitter. “But what if they never find him?”

“All I'm suggesting,” Jason said carefully, “is that you hold off, _for the moment,_ and go home. This is a dangerous place to be and you won't get anything out of it. Go, get some sleep, and think about how you want to do this. Preferably in a way that doesn't end with you getting hurt.”

And maybe get some therapy instead of training yourself to become and instrument that will strike fear into the heart of criminals, he thought but didn't add. He wasn't _that_ much of a hypocrite.

Bruce looked torn. “Fine. I looked around a bit before you showed up. I couldn't find anything, anyway.”

He said _you showed up_ like an accusation, but it wasn't very difficult to understand his real frustration was with himself. It didn't matter that there was nothing to be found here – Bruce would see it like a personal failure that he hadn't.

“Alright, good,” Jason said because he had no idea how to address any of that or if he even should. “Do you have someone to call who can come and get you?”

Bruce hesitated. “I don't have a phone.”

Jason sighed. Of course not. Nothing could be easy. “Alright, we'll find a payphone then.”

“No!” Bruce said, far too quickly. Jason raised an eyebrow. “It's just...if Alfred, my butler, knew I'd been here he'd worry. I can go back on my own. I'll get a cab.”

Jesus Christ on a bike, why did little Bruce have to be so _Bruce_? Jason could ignore the kid and call Alfred anyway, but the risk of interacting with yet another person he knew in the future was not insignificant. And Alfred was not a sheltered, naive eight year old – Jason was certain beyond reason that Alfred would see right through him in an instant.

“Not from here you won't,” Jason scowled. “Rule of thumb: a taxi stops around here, you don't wanna get in it. Capiche?”

“Then I will walk to a better part of town and then get a cab,” Bruce amended, sounding irritated.

Jason resisted the urge to slam his head against the nearest wall. “Listen, brat. You're what, eight years old? Do you think there's a single goddamn legit cabbie who would pick you up? Also, maybe don't tell people you met on the street that nobody knows where you are, I'm just saying.”

Bruce leveled him with a glare. “I'm not afraid of you. If you wanted me dead, you would have killed me already.”

Fucking unbelievable.

“Yeah, that's super dramatic and all,” Jason agreed, torn between disbelief and probably misplaced amusement. “Here's what's gonna happen: you're gonna call Alfred, or, since we've established that I'm not a murderer and everything, I'll drive you back.”

“Why do you even care?”

“Because if I let you out of my sight in this goddamn neighborhood and something happens to you, I'll be charged with criminally negligent manslaughter?”

“I don't know what that means,” Bruce muttered, sounding disproportionately annoyed with the fact. His face scrunched up. “Do you even have a car?”

Jason shrugged. “I have a bike.”

Not in this time, he didn't, but it'd be easy enough to get one. Easier than a car, and it would get them to the manor faster.

Bruce nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“Right,” Jason said. He'd suggested it, but he couldn't believe Bruce was going along with it. Did the kid have no self-preservation at all? “It's parked nearby, I'll go get it. You stay right here. Don't move an inch. Got it?”

It was a gamble to leave Bruce alone, but it would only be a few minutes, and he should be fine if he stayed out of sight. If little Bruce was as judgmental as the adult version, he wouldn't be delighted about the bike theft, and might refuse to go with Jason at all.

Bruce watched Jason like an owl as he hopped down to the street. Jason had the sinking feeling he was taking notes on how Jason did it and might even try to mimic him later.

“Stay right there,” Jason warned again.

He walked a few blocks in a hurried pace until he located a parked bike with a chain that was fairly easy to break. It was the work of less than five minutes to hijack it, but that was far too long for Jason's liking. Anxiety coiled in his gut. Jason pushed it away with a scowl.

Bruce would be fine.

He jumped on the bike and sped back to the alley, relieved to find a small shadowed figure watching him from the fire escape. Bruce came down tentatively, his eyes on the bike.

“You don't have keys,” he accused. Observant little shit.

“Don't need them,” Jason shot back with a shrug. “Hop on.”

* * *

The ride back to the manor was a silent one.

If the way he stiffened and clung to Jason the moment the engine revved was anything to go by, Bruce had never been on a bike before. He relaxed quickly though, and even gave something akin to a chuckle, barely audible with the wind blowing in their faces, when they took a particularly sharp turn.

The thing about driving in Gotham was that doing so responsibly was more likely to get you killed than it was to save your life. Everyone expected everyone else not to follow the traffic code, and acted according to that. Jason had once seen a nasty accident happen because a tourist stopped at a red light and the driver behind her had been so caught off guard that he crashed right into her.

Jason always drove fast, speed limits well out of his mind, but he wasn't careless. The spatial awareness he'd had to develop in the field applied here, too. Tonight the need for caution weighed more heavily than ever on him with a little kid clutching his jacket.

They got to the manor fast, but not fast enough for Jason, who wanted this affair to end so he could put it out of his mind once and for all. Jason pulled to a stop in front of the large gates, a complicated emotion twisting in his gut. He had no intention of going inside the manor, but he suspected he would find the interior as unchanged by time as the exterior was.

A mausoleum. The place he'd called home.

“You okay to get inside?” Jason asked.

“Yes. I have a method,” Bruce confirmed, sizing up his home with the same wariness in his eyes that Jason felt. Huh. Abruptly, the boy turned to look at him. “How did you know where I lived?”

Jason made a non-committal sound. “Everyone knows Wayne manor. Listen, just stay out of trouble, okay? No more trips to Crime Alley. And no more investigating unless you have a solid, _safe_ plan.”

“Crime Alley?” Bruce echoed.

Shit. It was still technically named Park Row, but to Jason it had always been the Alley. He hadn't realized the nickname wouldn't yet exist at this point in time.

“That's what we call Park Row on the streets." It wasn't exactly a _lie_. “But seriously, kid. Stay safe.”

Bruce looked unconvinced, and paid no mind to what Jason was saying. Instead he asked, “You know a lot about investigations, don't you?”

Jason did not like where this was going. “No.”

“You're lying,” Bruce said forcefully. “I can tell. I have a business proposal for you.”

Jason gave him a disbelieving look. A _business proposal._ He'd said it in a terribly formal voice, too, jutting out his chin as he did so. It would be hilarious, if Jason didn't suspect he was trying to copy his father's mannerisms. And _that_ was just depressing.

“No,” Jason repeated.

Unsurprisingly, Bruce ignored him. “I just need you to keep an ear out for anything relating to my parents. You know, the word on the street?”

“I don't think _you_ know,” Jason said with a frown.

“I can pay you,” Bruce went on. “I'll give you the manor's landline, and you can contact me if you discover anything. Do you have a way for me to contact you?”

“No,” Jason said once more, feeling distinctly like he was beating a dead horse. He considered his options. “Alright, here's the deal. If it comes to it, I'll contact you. If I don't, you don't seek me out. Understood?”

“Do you not have a phone?” Bruce pressed on. “Are they expensive? A bike has to be more expensive than a phone, right?”

Jason didn't _splutter_ , but god he came close. Ignorant little dipshit.

“None of your business,” he replied. “Now scram, kid, I'm losing my patience.”

“I'm not afraid of you,” Bruce informed him for the second time that night.

He was crazy enough to mean it, too. Jason couldn't deal with this.

“Good night, kid,” he called, turning on his heel. “Try not to die.”

“Wait,” Bruce called out. “The landline number.”

He let Bruce tell it to him and repeated it after him in a dull tone, omitting the fact that he'd already known it by heart. Then he _finally_ was allowed to leave.

He went far enough to slip out of Bruce's line of vision, but he stayed in the shadows and watched with a heavy feeling in his chest until Bruce was safely inside. Even then, it took a great effort on his part to abandon his hiding spot and drive back to Gotham.

None of this should've happened.

Jason had to laugh at himself. Throw him nearly three decades into the past, with no clear way to return and he was fine and dandy. Bring Bruce into the equation and everything crumbled. His plans for the night were ruined, his mind was a jumbled mess, his hands were shaking so bad he could barely hold on to the clutch.

Bruce as a child. It would be impossible to believe it was him, if only there wasn't so much _Bruceness_ in that ridiculous, stubborn kid. Running around Crime Alley in a _disguise –_ albeit an unsuccessful one at that – and playing detective. Who the fuck else would do that?

But it felt wrong to think of the child as Bruce, because Bruce was all these bitter, twisted thoughts and emotions that had nothing to do with this little kid. This Bruce had rattled Jason, and he was making some of his first, in a very long line of poor life choices, but it wasn't his fault. At least not yet.

God, he'd been so...composed. The farthest thing from okay – people who were okay didn't seek out murderers, probably – but he was holding it all in in a way that couldn't possibly be healthy. Then again, if Bruce had ever been able to process his grief in any healthy sort of way, Batman would have never existed.

Jason left the bike where he'd found it, sparing a second to feel guilty for the chain the owner would have to replace. He should get a new one, anyway. It didn't do much good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not a super plotty chapter, but hey, we got our first look at Bruce! and here I should say that, while this is in no way following Gotham's canon, I did watch the first couple of seasons a while back, so I'd imagine that my portrayal of kid!Bruce is influenced by that.  
> more people coming up next week :)


	3. Chapter 3

The next day found Jason in a bar. Or rather, in several.

He'd determined it had to be done, but that didn't mean he liked it. Sitting idly, wasting money on beer after beer that he didn't particularly want, nursing his drink slowly as he kept an ear out for anything valuable between the chatter and drunk howling of the patrons.

It was tedious work, but necessary. Already he'd overheard several hushed whispers that had caught his attention. Gangs that he knew as part of Batman's history, but were way before his time. Jason wasn't planning to intervene, but that also meant knowing what to stay away from.

And there was the other thing.

“I don't suppose you're looking for an extra pair of hands around here?” he asked the bartender casually as she replaced his empty glass with a new one. He'd asked the same question at the five other bars he'd been. At this point, he wasn't overly optimistic.

“Maybe,” she said. She raised an eyebrow. “Can you mix a cocktail?”

Jason grinned. “I make a mean Bloody Mary.”

“You'll have to make a mean everything,” she warned, tone dry. Jason laughed. “Let me ask my mum. She's the owner.”

Something in the way she said it struck him and he took a better look, only now properly noticing how young she was. Couldn't be older than him. Not old enough to legally bartend, just as he technically wasn't old enough to drink. But he was dead and also not born yet, so it wasn't really the same.

The bartender disappeared into the backroom and returned swiftly with an older woman following on her heel. The resemblance was clear, though the girl had a slightly lighter complexion to her mother's dark brown and was a head taller. Height came from dad's side of the family, Jason supposed. 

Jason himself looked more like his father than his mother, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. He'd gotten Sheila Haywood's eyes and curls, but that was it. The black of his hair, the olive complexion, his build, the shape of his face and his features, they were all Willis Todd. He couldn't decide which was worse to look at in the mirror – Willis' angry scowl, or the eyes that had been the last thing he saw before he died.

As a child he'd tried to find the resemblance between him and Catherine, never realising how futile it was.

“Nadia tells me you're looking for work,” the woman told him.

* * *

He got the job.

The next item on the agenda was a place to stay. His stash of cash wouldn't last forever, and it was much better spent on things other than motels. But neither did he have the money to rent a place yet, nor to forge the papers required to sign a lease. That left him with the lovely option of occupying a vacated apartment.

He'd done it a couple of times in the past, briefly, but he was never comfortable with it. Invasion of privacy notwithstanding, there was always a risk that the owners, who for all intents and purposes were supposed to be sipping martinis in a beach in the Caribbean, would return early.

Still, it was a risk that had to be taken. He scouted a nice midtown apartment owned by a couple who, as far as he could tell, were on a business trip overseas for the next two months. He preferred to think he'd be back to his own time by then, but even if he wasn't, he should have the assets for a more permanent solution.

Permanent. The word was ashes in his mouth. He moved his shit in. Not that he had much. He converted the kitchen table to a weapons arsenal and tried his level best not to change anything else. He cased the neighborhood, discovered a convenience store not two blocks away, and stocked up the fridge. He'd mostly neglected to eat the first few days, but now that he had a job he could be a little more easy with his cash. Not that much, because the pay wasn't anything to write home about, but a steady source of income was still valuable.

He still went out at night. He blended into the shadows in a more Batman-like manner than he would've liked, and he watched and listened and familiarized himself with the criminal underworld of this strange Gotham. That was all he was going to do, he resolved – Batman _had_ been the OG vigilante in town, inadequate as he was, and Jason had already decided that changing history was probably a bad idea.

A week went by like that. He hated every minute of it. He hated that he couldn't help for fear of making things worse. He hated how his thoughts turned to the kid Bruce when he least needed them to, like when he got home after patrol or a shift and tried to catch some sleep. Twice he'd gotten out of bed and staked out Crime Alley for hours just to be certain Bruce wouldn't show up.

He couldn't resent the kid for it, so he redirected his anger to adult Bruce, wherever he was. Jason couldn't remember how he'd ended up in the past, but he was sure that Bruce was involved and that Jason had been angry with him. What about, he wasn't sure, but it wasn't hard to believe that Bruce had done  _something_ to warrant it.

 Fleetingly, Jason wondered if he and the others had noticed he was gone. It wasn't unlike him to disappear, for longer periods than a week at a time. It would probably be a while since they figured out that something was wrong – _if_ they figured it out. And even if they did, Jason couldn't quite convince himself they'd care all that much.

* * *

What came as a surprise was that Jason didn't dislike his job.

The bar, _Grotesque_ , was never as busy as Cynthia – Nadia's mother and the sole owner of the place – would've liked. It didn't gather a totally nefarious crowd, but there was still plenty of interesting chatter to pick up on. The patrons were often overbearing but most of the time easy to brush off. Cynthia and Nadia were good people doing what they could to get by, and though he kept his distance deliberately, he found that they were starting to grow on him. He'd never had a normal day job, either – he'd gone from lifting car parts to full-on vigilantism, had a brief stint as an assassin in training, then became a maybe sort of mob boss (blah _blah_ bag of heads), and then back to vigilantism. It wasn't bad for a change.

The hours, though, were not ideal. He was probably better equipped to deal with sleep deprivation than a lot of people, an unavoidable side effect of spending his nights hopping around rooftops – but it just so happened that the two activities clashed. He could only possibly patrol after his shifts, which depending on the day could drag on until the early morning.

Today was a prime example. It was almost half past four when he crawled out of Grotesque feeling like death itself – and he would know, thank you very much. It was a shame Dick or Tim weren't there so he could joke about looking like a zombie. Going back to the apartment to retrieve his equipment had proved far too time-consuming, so he'd taken to carrying it with him in his stolen duffel back. Once he was done patrolling, he could shove it back inside and blend into the early morning crowd on the streets.

Doing just that, he stumbled into the nearest coffee shop he could find and somehow managed to communicate that he was in dire need of a coffee, black. Normally he wouldn't shy around a disgusting amount of sugar and cream, but when it came to an instant stimulant, black was the only viable option and anyone who thought otherwise was lying to themselves.

He took his coffee to go and from there his feet led him of their own accord to a small park. The grass was dry and scanty and there was trash littered everywhere, but it didn't stop a small group of kids, too young to be in school, from running around and chasing each other, squealing and laughing. Their parents watched tiredly from benches not far off.

Jason collapsed into an empty bench himself and sipped his coffee, making an admirable effort not to down the cup in one go. It spoke volumes to how out of it he was that he didn't initially notice the black car that pulled up to the park. He did, however, notice the familiar figures that stepped out.

He hadn't expected to see the young Bruce again, but the real trip this time was Alfred with nearly three decades of his age shaved off. He'd always kind of assumed Alfred was immortal and frozen in time, but here the man was, not even in his fifties yet. It threw Jason completely off balance.

His first instinct was to make a run for it. Instead he watched them approach, glued to the spot.

“Now why were we to disembark so urgently and without warning, young sir?” Alfred was asking, tone wry.

“I wanted a moment in nature,” Bruce replied solemnly, making Alfred cast him a skeptical look and Jason snort into his cup. “Could you buy me a bagel, Alfred?”

“Of course, young sir,” Alfred returned. Jason couldn't imagine he was unaware of the fact that he was being sent away deliberately. “I trust you will remain out of trouble in my absence?”

Bruce assured him he would, but Jason doubted Alfred believed it any more than he did. With a weary sigh and a last, meaningful look, Alfred disappeared. Allegedly in search of a bakery, but Jason wasn't too sure the man was willing to leave Bruce out of his sight. Bruce watched him go, then turned, his eyes fixing on Jason.

Well, there was nothing to be done now. Jason waved with forced cheer.

“I thought I saw you from the car,” Bruce informed him, sitting down next to Jason without waiting for an invitation. He leaned forward eagerly. “I made the driver stop right away. I think Alfred's suspicious. There's not a lot of time. Did you discover anything?”

“No,” Jason said, guilt twisting in his gut. He hadn't, but if he wanted to, he could give the boy the name of his parents' killer at this very second. “I would've called if I did.”

Bruce's eyes narrowed. “No, you wouldn't have. I can tell.”

“Oh, really. How?”

“I just know.” Bruce shook his head. “I don't understand why you're lying to me,” he said, frustrated. “You should know that I will pursue this investigation with or without your help.”

“And that matters to me why?”

“You seemed awfully concerned for my safety before. I have steered clear of Park Row in the days since our encounter, but if I cannot find a different avenue, revisiting the scene of the crime would be the logical choice.”

Throwing Jason's words back in his face and using his worry against him. Huh. So Bruce had the manipulative streak since childhood. Wasn't that lovely.

“I don't take well to mind games,” Jason warned him. Bruce had looked into his parents' death in Jason's time, he knew that. He would be fine, he would be _safe_ without Jason's interference. His heart still clenched in fear. “And I wasn't lying when I said I didn't hear anything.”

Bruce seemed to accept that, for the moment. He sat back and watched the younger children at the park, then abruptly his gaze flicked to the parents watching over them. He looked away so fast he must have gotten whiplash.

“I allowed you to persuade me to go home because I was afraid,” he said in a whisper. “Park Row frightens me. When I was in that street again, it was like I could see them lying there. But that's why I – I have to do this. You seem to think the police are going to get him. Their captain promised that, too. But they haven't yet. And their focus is split between this and other cases. Mine is not.”

That was a nice way to say he was obsessed, Jason thought. He didn't know what the kid was hoping for here, pouring his heart out to a stranger. That _wasn't_ a Bruce thing – it screamed vulnerability, and Jason had no idea what to do with it. He should probably walk away and ensure he never saw young Bruce again, but even he wasn't enough of a douchebag to do that to a kid who had just confided in him.

“I've dabbled in detective work in the past,” Jason said eventually. Or in the future, actually. Ha, ha. “And I know a thing or two about revenge, too. Sometimes too much focus is just as bad as not enough. You lose perspective.”

“But you are too young to have been a detective with the police,” Bruce argued, though he didn't sound too sure of it. The change of subject wasn't that subtle, either. “Or a private investigator So where did you do that? Are you lying to me again?”

“Nah,” Jason said. “My – my dad was a detective. Probably the best there ever was. I worked with him for a while.”

Could somebody shut him up? Could somebody _please_ shut him up? A gag, a punch to the mouth, a tranquilizer dart. Anything would do at this point.

Bruce hummed. “He sounds cool.”

Well, yeah, he would think so, wouldn't he. Even if the concept of Bruce finding things _cool_ was a novelty.

“I have to go,” Jason decided, standing up. “Your – Alfred will be back soon, anyway. So I better dash, unless you feel like explaining your misadventures in Cr – Park Row. Nice seeing ya and everything.”

“Wait,” Bruce said urgently, reaching out to tug on the sleeve of Jason's shirt. He retrieved something from the pocket of his jacket. “I got you this.”

It was a cellphone, probably the best there was out there in this year, even if it looked archaic to Jason. He gave Bruce a disbelieving look.

“What the hell, kid?”

“Now I have a way to contact you,” Bruce said with a curt nod, suddenly turning professional, never mind their little heart to heart, never mind that he was still clinging to Jason's sleeve. “I've programmed in my personal number as well as the manor's landline. If you have information, you would do well to call.”

“You can't –” Jason spluttered. “You can't just give people phones. What the fuck? I can't take this.”

“Why not?” Bruce asked plainly. “You don't have to take it just for me. It's useful.”

He wasn't wrong in that regard. A phone was something Jason hadn't been able to purchase yet. The need for it wasn't so urgent here in the early nineties, but it would make his life easier. It wasn't like Bruce, whatever his age, didn't have money to spare, either, but it still made him bristle. He'd never been one to welcome charity,even when he might have actually needed it. What was more, Bruce was giving him the phone with the assumption that it would bring him closer to his parents' murderer. Because he thought Jason was  _helping_ him  _investigate._

“No thanks,” he said.

Bruce set his jaw stubbornly. “I've already bought it and I have no use for it. What harm is there in taking it?”

Jason rubbed his eyes, taking a steadying breath. “I am a stranger who found you in an alley, yelled at you and then took you home on a stolen bike,” he reminded the kid as patiently as he could. “Why are you so adamant about staying in contact with me?”

“So the bike was stolen,” Bruce mused. “I suspected.”

Jason could feel the beginning of a headache. Possibly it was his mind trying to comprehend the goddamn roller coaster that was this kid.

“Fine!” Jason yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “Fine, I'll take the stupid phone, if only so this conversation can be over. But that doesn't mean I'm at your beck and call, you get that?”

Bruce appeared unperturbed. “Deal,” he said with a nod, and held out a hand for him to shake.

Jason sighed deeply as he took it, feeling distinctly like he had just walked into a trap.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fast update is fast because I didn't feel like very much happened last chapter, other than Bruce being Bruce, and I had this mostly written up anyway. next up: lots of Alfred!  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

Alfred Pennyworth was not a fool.

What he _was_ was grieving, overworked and out of his depth. Alfred was a military man turned butler turned caretaker; he had very limited experience in the handling of small children, and none at all when it came to children combating an overpowering grief of their own.

Every day was a bad day since That Night, but on the very worst, Alfred succumbed to the fleeting thought that social services were right. He was unfit to raise Bruce. But then he thought of the sorry state of foster care in Gotham, and his resolve hardened. He loved this child, loved him with a fierce protectiveness he had never once felt in his life before, and for better or for worse it appeared that he was the best option Bruce had.

Mistakes were unavoidable. He knew that.

It didn't do anything to ease the horror he felt when he came into Bruce's bedroom with a tray, a steaming mug of tea on it, to find his young ward missing. He pushed back his initial anxiety and went in search of Bruce. The manor was not lacking for places he could be – there was no need to worry yet.

He checked the library first. Then Thomas Wayne's study. Then Martha and Thomas' bedroom. He went from room to room, growing more and more frantic when Bruce didn't turn up.There was little staff in the house besides him, and none of them regularly. Alfred deployed everyone he came across in search of Bruce, but a half hour later they had made no progress.

Pure, unadulterated panic was starting to set in. Alfred had scarcely been so terrified before, even when fighting for his life. Through his terror, it occurred to him that the grounds around the manor offered as many hiding places as the house itself. With an instruction to the others to keep searching, he stormed off to the gardens like a man possessed.

It was night. The boy had retired for the day, but Alfred, noticing how little he'd had for dinner and knowing his trouble sleeping, had thought some tea might do him good. It was soothing, and easier to keep down than food. He shuddered to think how long it'd be before he noticed his ward was gone if he hadn't.

He had no clear concept of how long he roamed the grounds until, when he'd begun to consider the alarming possibility that Bruce was not in the property at all, he caught sight of him in the distance. Bruce was near the back entrance to the kitchen; perhaps he'd hoped to sneak in unnoticed. His hair was tousled as if by the wind and his boots and khakis muddied, but he was okay.

Relief washed over Alfred like a bucket of ice-cold water. Before he could revel in it, though, it was drowned out by unrelenting anger.

“Master Bruce!” he called out, voice sharp. Bruce turned to him with all the sheepishness of a boy who knew he'd been caught red handed. It did little to appease Alfred. “Where in heaven's name have you been?”

“I was just taking a walk, Alfred,” Bruce said as Alfred came up to him in hurried strides. It was then that Alfred knew with absolute certainty that Bruce had not, in fact, been taking a walk. The kid's poker face was good – but no one needed a poker face to tell the truth. “I apologize if I worried you. I got carried away.”

“Awfully considerate of you to let me know where you'd be,” Alfred heard himself snipe. He knew his anger was rooted in concern, but that didn't make him feel any less furious. “Inside, now. I'm quite interested in hearing the details of this 'walk' of yours.”

Bruce shuffled along.

Once they were inside, Alfred called off the search, then put on the kettle. Bruce sat at the kitchen table with his hands in his lap, pointedly avoiding Alfred's eyes. Alfred was doing all he could not to snap, focusing on the mundane task until he regained his composure. Still, the boy seemed to sense his mood, as evidenced by his brooding.

Alfred joined Bruce at the table and set two mugs in front of them. It was well past Bruce's bedtime now, but Alfred thought this conversation ought to take priority. He hoped it was the right call.

“Let's hear it, then,” he said, considerably calmer than he felt.

Bruce instantly cupped his hands around the mug, but made no movement to drink. “What would you like me to say?”

His tone was steady and neutral to match Alfred's own; his posture was defensive.

“What on earth possessed you to give me a frighten like that?” Alfred asked. “Do you know how long we have been looking for you? Or did you expect you could take off in the middle of the night and no one would be the wiser?”

“I didn't take off,” Bruce protested. “And it's not that late. I couldn't sleep and decided to take a walk; I must have gotten carried away. I didn't notice so much time had passed. I didn't mean to worry anyone; there was nothing to worry about.”

There was, Alfred thought, plenty to worry about.

“And I trust you remained on the premises in the duration of your midnight stroll?”

“Of course,” Bruce assured quickly.

Alfred had no doubt in his mind he was lying, but no way to verify it.

“Even so, I think you knew quite well that it is not acceptable to wander off without telling anyone where you mean to go. Next time you are compelled to stretch your legs, I expect to be informed.”

Bruce's eyes hardened. “You don't need to worry about me.”

“And yet, I do,” Alfred countered, an air of finality in his tone. “Have I made myself clear?”

Too proud to concede out loud, the boy averted his eyes and nodded. Alfred was far from convinced that would be the end of it, however – Bruce had never once appeared remorseful. Upset to have been caught and to have worried Alfred, maybe. But he was bound to repeat the stunt if he thought he could get away with it.

Alfred cursed himself for his carelessness and resolved to pay closer attention. He'd hung back because he had no wish to smother the boy, or pretend he could ever be a substitute for his parents, but maybe Bruce had taken this attempt to give him space as inattentiveness.

* * *

The next day, Bruce requested a cellphone.

He cited the need to stay in contact in the event they were separated; and besides, he reasoned, if Alfred had been able to call him yesterday and confirm he was fine, the whole incident would have been avoided. It was not wholly unreasonable, so Alfred relented, though he knew most kids did not have phones until a later age.

Three days later, Bruce claimed to have misplaced the phone, and a house-wide search did not uncover it. Alfred suspected something larger was at play, but he concluded the best way to discover what was to let the situation play out. So he got Bruce a new phone.

A few days after that, on an early morning as they were on their way to the tailor's shop, Bruce abruptly demanded the chauffeur stop the car, and he and Alfred disembarked at one of the most lackluster parks Gotham had to offer. Nature and bagels indeed; the boy had another thing coming if he thought Alfred would fall for his lies quite so easily.

He hung back, out of sight and watched as Bruce approached a rather gruff looking young man, sitting next to him with the sort of casual disregard one did not display with strangers. Alfred's protective instincts screamed at him to rush in and drag his ward away. However, Bruce was unlikely to give explanations even if Alfred demanded them. He watched them converse and didn't approach until the man was gone.

He didn't miss the cellphone his ward placed into the stranger's hands.

Alfred appeared at Bruce's side with the requested bagel, giving no indication he'd seen what had transpired.

“Why don't you go ahead and head to the tailor's with Charles?” he suggested. “I'm afraid some urgent business came up.”

Although puzzled and suspicious, Bruce went with the driver. Alfred had taken note of the direction the man disappeared in, and it didn't take him long to catch up. However, he seemed to have underestimated him; after two blocks or so, the man became alert to the fact that he was being tailed. Wasting no time, he engaged in tactical evasion patterns Alfred was reluctantly impressed by.

And then he stopped. He stood in the middle of a small empty street, leaning against a lamp post casually. It was an invitation if Alfred had ever seen one. No point pretending he wasn't there; Alfred obliged and stepped out of the shadows.

A complicated look crossed the man's face. He swallowed thickly and nodded at Alfred, eyes distant. “Had a feeling you wanted to have a chat in me.”

“I had some inquiries about another chat you had not too long ago,” Alfred said mildly.

The man – who was more of a boy, at closer inspection, hardly out of his adolescent years – sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Dunno what I should tell you,” he admitted with a humorless smile. He had a distinct Gotham accent, and not the upstanding part of Gotham, either. “I was hoping to avoid this.”

“Nevertheless, you cannot,” Alfred replied, tone clipped. “An explanation would be in order – how do you know Bruce Wayne and what do you want with him?”

“This is a fucking mess,” the boy said, to himself more than anything else. “Look, I know you won't believe me, but I'm trying to look out for him. He's investigating his parents' death. He won't stop, so don't try it, but...keep an eye on him, please.”

The earnestness in his voice took Alfred by surprise. He spoke like a man who had known and cared for Bruce for years. Alfred had assumed the man was related to Bruce's recent 'walk', but if they'd known each other longer than that, surely Alfred would be aware of it?

“And what is your interest in this?” he demanded. He hadn't failed to notice that the boy had danced around both of his questions.

“I just want him to be safe,” the boy murmured, like the admission pained him. “He went to – to Park Row, trying to look for clues. I convinced him to go home. I didn't expect to see him again.”

Alfred didn't know how much of that to believe, but one thing caught his attention and demanded it. His heart sank.

“He was there,” he whispered, “in that street? Eight days ago?”

The boy nodded uncomfortably. Alfred felt the world around him give way. He hadn't known. Bruce had been in the place he watched his parents die, in arguably the worst neighborhood in all of Gotham, and Alfred hadn't known. He hadn't been able to prevent him from leaving. He hadn't pressed for answers afterwards, either.

“I think I talked him out of going back, for the moment,” the boy went on. “But. He's not the type to let things go. I thought you should know.”

“That was the first time you met Master Bruce?” Alfred asked, trying to focus on the matter at hand. The boy hesitated, then nodded. “And you say your meeting today was unplanned?”

“Yeah.” The boy snorted, mouth twitching at the corners. “Apparently he saw me from the car. Sprang a phone on me so he could keep tabs on his 'source'. I've no idea why he's so sure I can help with his investigation.”

Something in the way he said it –

“Can you?” Alfred asked.

The boy's expression hardened. “I can't,” he said, voice tense. He sounded almost wistful. “I wish things were different. But the way I see it, best I can do is stay the hell out of this. My involvement won't be doing the kid any good.”

Little sense as it made, Alfred had no doubt the boy meant every word. Alfred had been an actor and was an excellent liar. He knew when he was being lied to. The kind of earnestness the boy was displaying couldn't be faked. He wasn't projecting it – he was trying to squash it down, but it still managed to bleed through.

It didn't add up. Once again this boy who claimed to have met Bruce not two weeks ago displayed a kind of fierce loyalty to him that could have only been forged in years' time. Alfred kept coming back to it, but he was no closer to the answer.

 _Who are you?_ Alfred wanted to ask. He was a walking contradiction. Everything from his posture to the guarded look in his eyes to the way he'd immediately known he was being tailed screamed of a harsh and complicated life. Yet for all the protective layers of mystery he wrapped himself in, there was a surprising vulnerability to him.

At least, at the very least Alfred could go home with the knowledge that this boy posed no threat to Bruce. He could be sure of that much.

“Look, it's been real,” the boy spoke again. “But I really should be going. Don't try to follow me home, I'll know.”

With that, he gave Alfred a mock salute and turned on his heel, leaving Alfred with a puzzle he didn't have the first clue how to go about solving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alfred, as promised. Next up: Jason literally runs away from his problems. It lasts for all of five minutes.


	5. Chapter 5

He needed to get out of Gotham.

Left reeling from his encounter with Bruce and Alfred, Jason didn't return to his – no, to _the_ apartment, the one he was illegally staying in. He walked to the central station and took the first train to the city limit. From there he 'borrowed' some unfortunate bastard's car, rich enough not to miss it by the looks of it, and drove in the general direction of Atlantic City.

Not that Jason cared where he was going. Destination wasn't important, as long as it was _away_. He should have done this the moment he'd realized he'd landed in the past. If he had, he wouldn't have had to deal with the past versions of his family.

Somehow, this was all Bruce's fault. For being a messed up little kid that snuck out of his house to investigate in alleys where he knew for a fact murderers hung out, but also the whole time travel ordeal. Jason had no idea how, but usually when there was this big of a clusterfuck, it was Bruce's fault.

He couldn't remember how he'd ended up in the past. That was what bothered him. He remembered agreeing to team up with Batman and Robin for a case they'd both been following. He remembered getting into an argument with Bruce before they even left the cave. Past that, he drew a blank – whether they'd actually gone out, and that was where he encountered whoever sent him here, or...he didn't know. The gap in his memory had to be part of the spell he was under. Clever, too. If he didn't know what had happened, it would be all that much harder to fix it.

To _fix_ it – that what he should be focusing on. Going home. But it was so easy, alarmingly easy, to believe that he couldn't. He didn't understand why. He wasn't usually that much of a pessimist – sure, some things were damn near impossible to remedy, but that didn't mean he wouldn't die trying. So why wasn't he trying?

The solution couldn't be scientific. First of all, it was a magical problem, and these two got along about as well as Batman and guns did. Second – this was a time before alien invasions and the subsequent influx of alien technology that made it theoretically possible to break into a research facility and steal yourself a time travel machine.

_See it through._

See what through? He could be patient if he had to, but this wasn't the kind of thing you could just ride out. It wasn't going to resolve itself. Jason had to fix it. Even if thinking about it made him nauseous, causing him to almost lose grip of the wheel. He hissed a curse under his breath and willed himself to focus.

Fine. So a magical solution for a magical problem. He didn't trust magic in itself and he trusted its users even less, but if it would get him home, then it was worth it. There was Zatanna, and even then Jason only trusted her because Bruce did – which he was never telling either of them, not in this fucking life, no sir. But Zatanna had to be close to Dick's age, maybe a few years older. She'd be what, a kindergartner?

_See. It. Through._

No, goddamnit. If it couldn't be Zatanna, then he could go to her father. He was a sorcerer too, wasn't he? The situation would be fun to explain, no doubt, but a man that worked with magic regularly ought to have seen stranger things. His name was Giovanni Zatara. Bruce had a file on him. Jason tried to remember anything that might give him a clue as to the man's whereabouts in the early nineties, but every time he thought he was getting somewhere it slipped his mind like an eel.

Jason was all too happy to blame Bruce for that, too. His focus should be on getting home. Instead all he could think about was a hardened but vulnerable kid and a man that looked far more tired, far more mortal now than he did three decades in the future.

Throughout their chat, Jason had wanted desperately to tell Alfred everything, timeline be damned. Because it had hurt to look at the man and see no recognition in his eyes. It had taken everything to sit there knowing he was being evaluated as a threat, unable to say anything concrete in his defense. He'd felt compelled to fess up and tell him the whole truth, like the time when he'd broken a priceless antique tea set in his first year as Robin.

He'd been so terrified, babbling apologies and certain he would either face wrath or disappointment. But Alfred had cut him off and calmly listed off everything Bruce and later on Dick had accidentally destroyed in the past. Then he'd given Jason a broom and they'd cleaned up the mess together. The next day, they'd gone shopping for a new tea set. Alfred had let him pick.

Alfred always knew how to make things right. But it wasn't _that_ Alfred that Jason had talked to today, not yet, not for a long time. It was a man recently entrusted with the care of a grieving child, all the while grieving himself. It was a man who already had his hands full and needed space and time to figure out how to become the mentor and friend and father and, much later, grandfather that Jason knew.

Jason had no right to dumb his time-travelling bullshit on him.

He stopped at a small town not too far from Atlantic City. Smithville – the name was as painfully ordinary as it got. Hopefully he couldn't find something to screw up here. There was a tavern, Lantern Light, that he avoided like the plague. With his luck, it'd turn out to be owned by a Green Lantern, no doubt about it.

Instead he got a pie from the bakery and sat by the lake as he ate, gazing out at the water. The town was peaceful and more importantly, completely unfamiliar to him. He had no idea how different it would look like in twenty eight years. It took a weight off his shoulders, not to see echoes of the future everywhere he looked.

When he thought he had his shit together – as much as could be expected given the situation – he called Nadia.

“What,” she greeted. Judging by the hoarseness in her voice, he'd probably woken her up. With the hours they worked, he wasn't judging.

Jason coughed into his phone. “I'm sick.”

There was a rustling sound. “Yeah, no,” Nadia said, slightly more awake this time. “A, you weren't sick twelve hours ago so you sure as hell ain't sick now, and b, there's no way we can find someone to cover for you in such short notice. So you're a paragon of health, you hear me?”

Jason winced. “Look, I really can't come in.”

“Is someone dead or dying?” At Jason's continued silence, Nadia sighed. “Thought so. And you're not actually sick, so what gives?”

“I might currently be a three hour drive away from Gotham,” Jason confessed.

“Good,” Nadia said, to his surprise.

“Good?” Jason repeated, skeptical. It felt like a trap.

“Means you can make it back in time for your shift,” she informed him smugly. “See that you do.”

Jason opened his mouth to tell her he had no plans of doing that.

Except, if that was the case, why had he constructed an excuse that implied his absence would only be temporary? He told himself that he was leaving Gotham for good, but he was doing everything in his power to leave the door wide open. It wasn't home, but it was the closest thing to it in this brave new – or rather, old – world.

He tried again. But then, he couldn't leave just like that, could he? It really wouldn't be easy for them to find someone to cover for Jason in the next three hours. Besides, he hadn't even bothered going back to the apartment – all of his equipment was still there. If he did leave, it couldn't be like this, impulsive and disorganized.

“Yes, ma'am,” he said with a sigh.

“Good. And next time you want to skip work, don't think you can get away with calling me instead of mum because you're scared of her.”

“I'm not scared of her,” Jason protested.

Nadia snorted. “Sure thing, coward.”

And before he had a chance to defend his honor, she hang up on him. That, Jason thought, was the trouble. He _liked_ Nadia, and Cynthia, and his job. As much as he'd needed a source of income, he'd been stupid to create ties to this Gotham. He hated having loose ends to tie up. He liked having the freedom to walk away whenever he wanted to, whether he decided to or not.

He checked the time and winced. He did promise he'd be back in time, and he had to drive like hell if he wanted to keep that promise. He was really making a habit of stealing vehicles these days. Adult Bruce would give him an earful if he knew.

“Take _that,_ dad,” Jason murmured sardonically.

* * *

Jason made it to Grotesque panting and with two minutes to spare. Today he had the opening shift, which was literal hell when preceded by the closing yesterday, but at least it meant he'd be out at eleven. Maybe, if there were no interesting rumors to follow up on, he could even skip patrol and be in bed before midnight for once.

After the day he'd had, he needed it.

Jason unlocked the door, slipped inside and began setting the tables with no great amount of enthusiasm. He had approximately an hour to do that and stock the bar before they opened for business. Despite the relatively tamer hours of the opening shift, Jason didn't favor it, because most of the sleazy costumers – the ones he liked to keep tabs on – arrived later in the night.

Usually, they didn't get a large crowd for those first few hours, save for a few men in their fifties to sixties content to order more beer than their bladders could reasonably hold and to squabble over Gotham Knights statistics. Serving them was hardly exciting work, and the concept of tipping seemed to evade them altogether, but it was no great trouble, most of the time.

Today, pouring beers and half-listening to the sports discussion wasn't nearly enough to distract him from his thoughts. The first hour passed, agonizingly slow, and Jason was embarrassed at the strength of his relief when Nadia came in for her midshift. She took over the bar as he moved to serving the floor.

“So spill,” she prompted in a moment of quiet, propping both elbows against the bar and holding her face in her hands like she was waiting to hear a bedtime story.

“It's true, I drank that Whiskey Sour left untouched at table 5 yesterday,” Jason said without blinking.

Nadia rolled her eyes. “You're hilarious. I meant this whole business about 'being sick' and all.”

He could hear the air quotes in her tone.

“I got better,” he lied without an ounce of shame.

“By skipping town,” she said, skeptical.

Jason nodded. “Yep. Clean air does wonders.”

Let her try and dispute that. Everybody knew the air in Gotham was probably killing them all.

Nadia laughed. “I'm a bartender, Jason,” she reminded him. “Shoulder to cry on, discount therapist and all that crap. If you need to talk, you can talk to me.”

“I've never needed to talk to anyone, anywhere,” Jason said with a grin, internally mourning that Parks and Rec did not yet exist. “How do I know, frankly, that _you_ don't need to talk to someone? Maybe you do. Maybe you're trying to throw me off? Hmm check and mate.”

Nadia sighed at what he'd personally thought was a flawlessly delivered performance and gave him a pat on the back. “If you say so.”

At that moment, a customer signaled for a refill and Jason took the opportunity for what it was, happily escaping the conversation. It wasn't so much that he thought Nadia would insist he talk to her if he didn't want to. It was just that the more he thought about it, the more he could use a sounding board.

As the time passed, the bar began to fill. Cynthia arrived and took over the bar, while Nadia split her time between restocking liquor and lending a hand with serving. It was always a cause for celebration when they were full, as it didn't happen as often as they'd like, but the reality was that in those occasions they struggled to keep up.

It was less than an hour before the end of his shift that they got another breather. And Jason, loathe as he was to admit it, cracked like an egg.

“I was never supposed to be in Gotham for long,” he admitted to Nadia. “It's complicated, so don't ask, but I can't go home and staying here is my least-worst option for the moment.”

She made a face. “Of all the cities to be stuck in. It's funny, though, I would've taken you for a Gothamite for sure.”

“No, I am. I just...it's...” he trailed off with a shake of his head.

“Complicated?” Nadia suggested wryly.

He had a sneaking suspicion he was being made fun of. It was jarring to realize how desperately he'd missed that kind of thing since his temporal displacement.

The easy camaraderie he had with Roy and Kori, a bond that lasted even after their team dispersed, even if nowadays they went weeks without seeing each other. Every time they met, or spoke on the phone it felt like picking up were they left off. A natural transition. Like they hadn't been apart for a single moment.

He even missed the rapport he'd built with the bats over the years. It hadn't been painless or without bumps along the way, and it would be a cold day in hell before he called them his family to their faces. But goddamn if they didn't mean something to him. That was the trouble with letting yourself have good things – it hurt like a bitch when you lost them.

“Yeah,” he admitted.

She folded her arms over her chest. “Alright. So if staying here is your best option right now, why were you running off this morning?”

“Ran into some...relatives.” The word felt tame, all things considered. “Unexpectedly. Fucked me up a bit.”

“Are they trouble?” Nadia asked immediately, a crease appearing between her eyebrows.

Jason had to laugh. “Nah,” he said. “I'm the trouble. I'm only – I'm only gonna mess shit up for them by being around, but they don't get that.”

“Well, judging by the mopey tone, you clearly want them in your life. Don't you think it should be their call whether they want you in theirs?”

Jason grimaced. “You weren't kidding about the discount therapist bit, huh.”

“Deflection,” Nadia sing-sung with an innocent smile.

“They don't know shit about me,” Jason said. “And anything that matters, I can't tell them. I can't even explain to them _why_ it's a risk to be around me, so they can decide for themselves.”

“Sounds like a horrible dilemma,” Nadia said agreeably. She shrugged as Jason raised his eyebrows. “What? You're not giving me much to work with here. Everything you've said is vague and cryptic and exactly none of it sounds objective, so. My discount therapist advice? Stay for a couple of drinks after your shift, on the house, then go and get some sleep. You said that you _can't_ be around them like it's a settled thing, but clearly you're having doubts. The decision can wait until tomorrow.”

Jason considered this. “If I can have a couple of Zombies, sure.”

Because whether there was one of the batbrats around to be appalled by it or not, Jason had to go for the death pun when the opportunity was handed to him like that. Also, it was strong stuff, and he could use it.

Nadia shrugged. “It's your funeral.”

That startled a laugh out of Jason. He almost regretted that he couldn't tell her how hilarious it was.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is late and kinda filler-ish, but hopefully it addresses a couple of questions that arose? see you next week with more of Bruce and Alfred.  
> My [tumblr](https://acrobatgrayson.tumblr.com)  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning that Bruce is dealing with a whole lot of trauma and survivor's guilt. I don't think anything he thinks about qualifies as suicidal ideation and/or tendencies, but he's definitely not very invested in his well being, so I thought I'd give a headsup anyway. Please go ahead and skip this chapter if it sounds like this might bother you, or shoot me a question if you'd like more details to be sure.

Bruce crossed his arms defensively.

“But I don't want to go, Alfred,” he said for the third time that evening and hoped he didn't sound as petulant as he felt. “I'm fine, I swear. Miss Peggy and I already talked about the stages of grief and my feelings and...why do I have to go back?”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred sighed, and Bruce was sorry to hear the weariness in his tone. “Mourning is not a one and done deal. Just because you went to one session doesn't mean you're okay. You need –”

“I don't _want_ to mourn!” Bruce interrupted. “I don't want to talk! I want to _do_ something! I...”

He'd said too much. The look Alfred was giving him turned sharper.

“And what is it that you would like to do?” he asked, a challenge in his voice. “Sneak out of the house and all the way to Gotham again? Arrange meetings with more strangers, perhaps?”

Oh no. How had Alfred found out? Bruce had been so careful, both in his sneaking out and that chance meeting with Jason. And he'd thought Alfred might suspect something, but – what did he _know_? Did he know Bruce had been in Park Row? About his investigation? Would he try to stop him? It unsettled Bruce, that Alfred may have known all this time and given no indication of it, waiting instead for a moment like this to mention it.

Bruce deflated. “I don't know what you mean.”

“I'm talking about the young man you bestowed a phone upon some days ago in hopes it would aid your search for your parents' killer,” Alfred said, blunt and to the point. “I'm talking about your trip to Park Row when you _swore_ to me you'd only been taking a stroll in the grounds. None of this behavior is healthy and it can't go on. Put on your coat; we don't want to leave Dr Lewis waiting.”

God, Alfred knew _everything._ However he had found out, however long he had known, it couldn't mean anything good for Bruce's plans. It was never very fruitful to try and argue with Alfred, but especially not in a time like this. Bruce dragged his feet to the hall and shrugged on his coat as instructed, scowling to himself. Fine. Alfred could make him go, but he could not make him talk to Miss Peggy. All he had to do was sit in that ridiculous soft chair opposite hers, keep his mouth shut and wait for an hour to pass. Eventually, both she and Alfred would realize it was pointless to keep bringing him.

He'd tried, the first time, he really had. Some of the things she'd said sounded profound and scientific and he did his best to pay attention to them. He'd even made an effort to relay his own thoughts and emotions, but everything inside him was such a contradicting mess and trying to put it in words just made it worse. If he opened that door, he wasn't exactly sure what would break free. He didn't want to find out.

The car ride was silent. It was just him and Alfred behind the wheel, no chauffeur, and Bruce was grateful. Therapy was a sore spot he didn't want anyone else to know about. It was bad enough that Alfred thought he needed fixing. And now that he knew about Bruce's investigation...

“I was being careful,” Bruce blurted out. “In Park Row. It wasn't dangerous.”

“You should know better than anyone that Park Row is always dangerous,” Alfred told him sharply. “You went behind my back, lied to me about it, and risked your life for no reason. You will tell me exactly how you managed to get there, and there won't be a repeat. Are we clear?"

“There was nothing there anyway,” Bruce murmured. “Jason said the police would have gathered all the evidence. I won't be going again.”

“Most certainly not,” Alfred agreed. After a pause, he sighed. “I spoke to your friend. He claims he only met you on your little stroll.”

Bruce nodded confirmation.

“What exactly do you know about him?”

“Not much,” Bruce admitted with a shrug. “He didn't want me to be in Park Row. He sounded a bit like you, actually. Very fussy.”

Bruce had no idea what they'd talked about or even how Alfred had found out about him, but it was clear from his tone that he didn't trust Jason very much. Bruce wasn't sure he did, either. But Jason talked like a detective, a _real_ one like from the Agatha Christie books Bruce's mom used to read, not the police kind. And Jason knew something, no matter how much he insisted otherwise.

And he hadn't tried to stop Bruce, not really. He hadn't said _you're just a kid_ or _the police will handle it._ That immediately earned him some points.

“I want you to lose his number,” Alfred said.

“But –” Bruce tried to protest.

“Lose it, or I will confiscate your phone, master Bruce. That's what you wanted it for, isn't it?”

“He might be my only lead, Alfred!” Bruce said angrily. “He's not dangerous, okay? I know what I'm doing!”

“Evidently not.” Alfred cast him a disapproving look over the rear view mirror. “Even assuming you are correct about him, he is a man we know nothing about that you met in a place you shouldn't have been, and I will not encourage your habit of sneaking off and investigating.”

Bruce felt like screaming. “Alfred, please,” he tried. “I _need_ to find the man who did it.”

“And were you so lacking in resources that you had to go about it in the way you did? Did it occur to you to ask me for help?” Alfred questioned.

Bruce fell silent. No, it hadn't. He'd been certain that Alfred would disapprove. Stop him. And he knew it would be out of concern for his well being, but he had no idea how to make anyone understand that the only way he'd be okay was if he found that man. Maybe he'd misjudged Alfred.

“If I asked,” he said, “ _would_ you help?”

They'd reached Miss Peggy's neighborhood. Her office was located in uptown Gotham, an area safe enough for Alfred to leave the car parked several blocks away from her building and be reasonably sure it'd be there when they came back. Or maybe it wasn't out of certainty but necessity – there wasn't another open parking spot as far as the eye could see.

Alfred parked the car and turned to look at Bruce. “I would. With some conditions. One, no sneaking around behind my back. Two, you will not contact Jason again without my permission. Three, you will continue to attend therapy regularly.”

Bruce thought long and hard before he answered. “I accept,” he lied.

As a show of goodwill, he fished his phone out of his pocket and showed Alfred as he deleted Jason from his contacts. What he neglected to mention was that he'd already memorized the number. It wasn't like he specifically planned to ignore the conditions of the agreement, but he couldn't dismiss the possibility he'd need to at some point. Jason's mysterious knowledge _was_ the closest thing he had to a lead.

Alfred held out his hand and they shook on it. Bruce felt bad. He hated lying to Alfred. He clamped down on his guilt and reminded himself why he was doing this.

Alfred walked him up and they settled in the waiting room with ten minutes to spare. Bruce's father used to say that it was the Brit in Alfred that compelled him to be early to everything – once upon a time, Bruce would have teased him for it and seen the amused twinkle in his eye. But if this was once upon a time, they wouldn't be here.

When his name was called, Bruce steeled himself, gave Alfred a tight nod and made a beeline from the office. The doctor, an impeccably dressed woman in her late thirties, looked up and gave him a smile, small but genuine, more visible in the eyes than in the mouth.

“Hi Bruce,” she greeted. “Come in. How 're you doing?”

“Hello, Miss Peggy,” he returned politely. He knew the technical title was Dr, but he didn't like being reminded of the fact that he was visiting a doctor. Like he was ill. “I'm fine,” he assured her, and in a sudden stroke of genius added, “How are you?”

She hummed in consideration. “I'm well, thank you. I'm going to a concert in Metropolis in the weekend, so I'm looking forward to that.” She smiled again. “Would you like to tell me about your week?”

Bruce debated telling her no just to gauge her reaction. But he'd promised Alfred he'd keep going to therapy, and he was pretty sure that included talking to his therapist, so his earlier plans of stewing in silence were thwarted. The only way out was through – he had to convince Miss Peggy that he was okay. 

“It was alright,” he said with a shrug. “I'm not back in school yet, so not much happened. It's kind of boring, really.”

She nodded seriously. “So what do you do with your time?”

“I read a lot,” Bruce said. He found that, minus the trip to Park Row and his meeting with Jason, he truly didn't have much else to say. “Oh, Alfred and I went to a park and then to the tailor a few days ago. He didn't need me to come but he thought I should get out of the house.”

“Alfred is your guardian, isn't he? What is he like?”

No questions about his parents or his feelings yet. This was good. Bruce could do this.

He shrugged again. “He's nice. Very, uh...British.”

Bruce couldn't quite tell if Miss Peggy was pulling some therapist trick to make him think about his parents without even talking about them, or if it was just the fact that he thought about them all the time anyway. She gave him an appraising look and for a moment he thought she was going to ask for more information, but then she relented and changed the subject.

“You said you get bored. Do you get lonely?”

The question caught him by surprise and Bruce flinched, feeling like Miss Peggy had just punched him in the stomach. Her tone was kind and somehow that made it worse. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“I guess,” he admitted, because he was pretty sure she'd see through him if he tried to deny it. “I'll start school again soon, though. So it won't be a problem.”

“I see,” she said mildly.

“What? Did I say something wrong?”

She shook her head. “There's nothing you could say wrong, Bruce. It's not a test.”

But it was. A test to see if he was fine. And he had to pass, but he was pretty sure he wasn't grading very high right now.

“Of course,” he agreed. “I know, that's not what I meant.”

“Bruce, do you remember what we talked about last week, about identifying and expressing emotions?” Bruce nodded. “Good. So can you tell me, honestly, what you're feeling right now?”

And Bruce knew that Miss Peggy was good at her job, Leslie had recommended her, but this was the part where he fundamentally disagreed with her. Because she wanted him to say he wasn't fine. She wanted him to drag up every horrible thing he was feeling and lay it out, and she believed that somehow that was going to make him better.

How was he supposed to convince her that he was okay when to follow her instructions correctly he had to admit that he wasn't? It made him want to rip his hair out.

“I...I was really sad,” he said and it fell flat even to his own ears. “But it's better now. I'm still angry at the man who did it, and of course I miss them, but...I'm fine. Really.”

She smiled. “You say that a lot.”

“I'd only have to say it once if you believed me,” Bruce pointed out, more whiny than he'd like.

“Fair enough,” she said with a laugh. “Okay, Bruce. Do you think you're well enough to tell me a little bit more about your parents?”

And the answer to that was a resounding no, but that would mean having to own up to not being okay, and Bruce refused to do that. He was managing, wasn't he? Maybe he couldn't sleep because every time he closed his eyes the image of his parents' lifeless bodies was there, maybe it was the only thing he thought about at this point because thinking about anything else felt like a betrayal, but he was making do.

“Okay,” he said. “Sure.”

* * *

The rest of the hour was unsurprisingly tough. Miss Peggy must have sensed his discomfort, because she barely pushed, but they ended up talking about things Bruce had promised himself not to think about anymore, like how his father always came to tell him good night even when he was late from work, or how his mother read him Jules Verne stories with the both of them curled up in an armchair in the library, mugs of hot cocoa in hand.

And it was making things worse, not better – it was making Bruce want to cry and scream like he hadn't since that night. That could not be an improvement, no matter how much Miss Peggy assured him that his emotional reactions were not only normal but also inevitable.

He was in such a foul mood by the end of it that he stormed out of the office with barely a goodbye, letting Miss Peggy and Alfred hash out the details of his next appointment. He made to go wait in the car, but a look from Alfred kept him in place. Alfred was like that, refusing to leave Bruce out of his sight when they weren't in the manor if he could help it. Alfred said his goodbyes to Miss Peggy and put a hand on Bruce's shoulder as they took the stairs down. Bruce shrugged it off and quickened his pace to stay a step ahead of Alfred.

It made him angry, suddenly, the way Alfred hovered, because he knew where it was coming from – fear that what happened that night might happen again. Everyone these days was committed to keeping him safe, from Alfred and Leslie to the police captain, now that it didn't matter anymore. Didn't they _get_ it? The worst thing that could happen to him had already happened.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred protested as Bruce quickened his strides even more.

They were close to the car now, and getting in the car meant going home, and as eager as Bruce had been for the session to end as soon as possible, now that it was over going home felt unbearable. Home was all the empty rooms where he expected to see his mom every time he turned a corner, it was the closed door to his father's study with no one inside, it was all the portraits that he couldn't avoid looking at.

He hated the concern in Alfred's tone. He hated the reprimands about the recklessness of his activities. Why did he have to stay safe now? Why hadn't anyone kept his parents safe? Why hadn't _Bruce_? Why did he have to live to witness their deaths if there was nothing he could do about it?

Alfred caught up to him, larger and faster than Bruce was, blocking Bruce's way with a deep frown on his face. Bruce balled his fists and glared, shoving Alfred back before he could realize what he was doing. He'd put all his strength behind it, but Alfred only stumbled one small step back in surprise. It made Bruce even angrier, seeing his own weakness.

“Just leave me alone!” he demanded.

He took off in a sprint, not pausing to look back even as he could hear Alfred's footsteps close behind. He pushed himself to run as fast as he possibly could, knowing he'd need to lose Alfred quickly if he wanted any chance of getting away. A blue van almost ran him over as Bruce raced across the street, but he paid it no mind. He had to keep going.

He was paying so little attention to his surroundings that he almost ran into a man in a ski mask, tall as he was wide, standing right in front of Bruce and blocking the way. Bruce side stepped at the last moment, but a large hand reached out and pulled him back, another clasping over his mouth. His heart jumped, beating erratically, and he lashed out to get free on instinct.

The man was too strong. He maneuvered Bruce towards the same van he'd ignored completely. Bruce tried to fight, but he was starting to get dizzy. The hand over his mouth was making it hard to breathe. He tried to call out for Alfred, but it came out small and muffled. He thought he heard an answering scream of “Bruce!” but he couldn't be sure.

Finally he saw him and his heart sank. Alfred was fighting off three more men, all of them as imposing as the one who had Bruce. And he was doing a lot better than Bruce was, but for how long could he hold them off? Bruce knew Alfred had been a soldier, but he was old now, and he was outnumbered. Bruce tried calling for him again, and Alfred's eyes snapped to him just as the man dragged Bruce into the back of the van.

The man threw him inside unceremoniously and slammed the doors shut. Bruce scrambled to his feet and tried to pry them open, but they wouldn't budge from the inside, no matter how hard he banged his fist against them. Then the doors opened again and Bruce had to stumble back to avoid behind hit. Two of the men hauled Alfred inside, strangely limp, and the doors closed once more.

The van came to life, engine roaring, and he could faintly hear voices in the front, but all of Bruce's attention was on Alfred. He hadn't moved at all from where the men left him. He was sprawled across the floor, arm bent in a strange angle, a drying patch of blood on his head, still as a statue. Bruce felt sick, stomach churning at the sight. He couldn't tell if Alfred was breathing.

His vision blurred, legs weak and jittery. He stumbled to his knees and crawled over to Alfred, jamming two fingers just below his jawbone and praying he would find a pulse. His father had taught him the basics of first aid, but he struggled to find the right place now, and it took agonizing seconds of fumbling until he felt the steady thrum of blood pulsing through the veins. Bruce sagged in relief, his eyes filling up with tears.

Alfred was alive. Bruce just had to wake him up and everything would be fine. Alfred would know what to do. Bruce grabbed him by the shoulders and shook, but Alfred didn't stir. Bruce remembered his father telling him that people who were knocked out typically woke up within the minute; if they didn't it could mean some serious damage had been done.

Alfred didn't wake. Bruce couldn't be sure how much time had passed, but he knew the minute had to be up. He continued shaking Alfred out of desperation more than genuine hope that it would work, anxiety coiling in his gut. It wasn't happening again. Bruce was not going to let it happen again.

“Alfred,” he whispered because he didn't know if the men in the front could hear him. “Alfred, wake up. Alfred, please. Please, I'm sorry.”

Why had he ran? He didn't know who had them or why, but one thing seemed obvious: they'd grabbed Bruce just as he made to run away. This was his fault. He was crying in earnest now, tears streaming down his face even as he pressed his lips into a thin line to keep from sobbing. He didn't like how helpless it made him feel, being unable to stop the tears. He'd cried that night, but not since.

Eventually the van ground to a halt. Bruce shifted so he was standing over Alfred, shielding him. He lunged at his captors as soon as they came in, but he was nowhere near strong enough to take them on. Two of the men dragged him off, away from Alfred. They were at the entrance of some tall building, two more masked men standing guard. They took him inside a large room full of empty pallet racks, tied his wrists and ankles together and refused to answer any of his questions about Alfred.

“If you don't zip it, kid, it's lights out for you,” one of them warned.

The appeal of unconsciousness – a lack of awareness – was far smaller than the potential problems it could cause, so Bruce zipped it.

“Now,” the man went on, “we're going to call your guardian, and when I let you speak to him you're going to tell him to do exactly as the nice men said. Capiche?”

Through his terror, it occurred to Bruce that his captors had to be monumentally stupid.

“My guardian is Alfred Pennyworth,” he said slowly. “You took him too.”

The men exchanged looks, sudden discomfort clear through the eye holes of their masks.

“Well, who else is there?” one of the other men asked.

Bruce swallowed thickly. “No one,” he said. “There's no one.”

* * *

His captors were unhappy with this development of events. They pressed, and eventually Bruce gave them the name of Jacob Kane, but he doubted anything would come out of it. He and his wife and their daughter Kate had been to the funeral, but until that point Bruce had had little to do with his mother's side of the family, and it hadn't changed since. One of the men were trying to contact the Kanes right now. It had not seemed to matter to him when Bruce explained that they didn't live in Gotham.

Another man came in, nowhere near as physically imposing as the rest, but clearly the boss judging from the way the others deferred to him. He was furious when the men explained what happened, demanding to know why they'd grabbed Alfred as well. Privately, Bruce agreed with him. If it had only been him, it would be bearable. If Alfred had been safe and uninjured, he would know what to do to fix this.

“We didn't know that was his guardian!” one of the men explained in a panicked yelp. “We thought he was the driver! But the way he fought – he has to be military, he caught us by surprise. And then he unmasked one of the boys mid-fight, so we couldn't leave him there.”

The boss growled, grabbing his much larger underling by the collar of his shirt and dragging him down to his height. “If we didn't need all the men we have, I would shoot your squad right here for their incompetence.”

The man looked sufficiently cowed as his boss released him. Finally, they left the room, with a last warning to Bruce not to try anything. Bruce waited until they were gone from sight and promptly ignored their threats, struggling to loosen the rope around his wrists. It wasn't actually that tight, but Bruce had no idea what he was doing, so it took him a few minutes and a lot of red, irritated skin to escape his bonds.

His heart hammered in his chest. The men hadn't bothered to search him. Bruce still had his phone in the inside pocket of his jacket. He knew making a call would be risky, but he needed help _now_ , especially if Alfred was injured. He couldn't afford to wait until his captors reached the Kanes and negotiated a price. If it happened at all.

Bruce dialed 911 and willed the men not to come back yet. The phone rang and rang, his anxiety growing with each passing second. _Please hold,_ an automated voice answered eventually. _The next available operator will answer your call._ Bruce felt like crying again. He waited for as long as he could risk it, but nobody came to answer. Every tiny sound from outside had him scrambling to hide the phone.

He didn't know what else he could do. The only number programmed in his contacts was Alfred's. He hung up and called again, but the same voice responded. What he would give to be able to talk to someone right now, to Leslie or even that nice police officer who had looked at Bruce steadily, no pity in his eyes, and promised they'd find his parents' killer. What good was the stupid phone if he still couldn't reach anyone?

But then it hit him. The reason he'd gotten the phone in the first place, the one number he remembered by heart. It was a long shot, went against the promise he'd made to Alfred only hours earlier, and he didn't really know what he hoped to accomplish by it – but there _was_ someone he could call.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Disclaimer that I haven't been to therapy in several years and the circumstances were vastly different, so I'm sorry if my depiction wasn't accurate. I did a little reading on grief counseling and grief in children specifically, but if you see anything glaringly wrong, please let me know? Also, just to be 100 % clear: Bruce's thoughts on therapy may be understandable from his perspective but they are definitely not objective, or in alignment with my own.  
> I also found myself reading a lot about kidnappings and the layout of warehouses, so that's always fun. Still probably not realistic, but then again, this work is based on a comic about a dude dressing up as a giant bat. I'm trying, man. I would make a terrible criminal, probably.  
> My [tumblr](https://acrobatgrayson.tumblr.com).  
> Comments are my fuel :)


	7. Chapter 7

Jason's resolution to observe but not interfere with Gotham's criminal underbelly lasted exactly as long as anyone who knew him at all could reasonably expect.

He hadn't planned it, exactly. He was out investigating a rumor that a small but ambitious gang planned on making a move at one of Gotham's four container ports. The trouble was he didn't know _which_ one yet. Jason wondered what the hell the idiots planning this were thinking.

If they were unsuccessful, they would be mercilessly wiped out. And on the off chance they succeeded, they'd have a full on war with Falcone at their hands. Everybody knew the ports were his territory and there was no one besides the Maroni family who could possibly hope to challenge that. Jason was debating whether an anonymous tip to the police was the kind of intervention he could get away with, and whether it would actually accomplish anything.

He didn't know _which_ port they'd be moving in on yet and didn't have the kind of connections here that could reveal it to him. Eavesdropping on idle chatter and stalking thugs could only achieve so much. So he was stuck patrolling the docks and hoping to stumble across some valuable piece of intel or catch the gang in action.

It had been like this for the past three nights. Jason was on his way back to the apartment – which, to make matters even worse, was a considerable distance from the ports when one had no means of transport other than a grapple gun. He was beat, wanting nothing but to collapse into the blessedly comfortable bed that was not his.

And then he heard it.

“I don't know, man,” a small, female voice was saying, in a practiced drawl that didn't quite manage to disguise her discomfort. “I'm trying to get clean and all. My dad's sniffing around and if he caught me messing with this shit, you know how it is...”

Jason swung towards the source on instinct. He landed silently on a low building overlooking a dim-lit street and gritted his teeth at the sight. The girl that had spoken looked like she was barely in her teens, while the man she'd been addressing was easily twice her size. His demeanor was friendly as he coaxed her into taking a small white pack, but there was something vaguely threatening behind it.

The girl grew more and more uncomfortable by the second.

He didn't remember making a conscious decision to step in, but he found himself landing on the street with a soft thud regardless. Both heads turned to him, the girl jumping in surprise and the man scowling openly. Jason was in civvies, but he had a cloth tied around the lower half of his face. Not the usual amount of protection he had when doing this, but he sincerely doubted one lousy drug dealer posed a threat to him.

“Think you might wanna lay off, buddy,” he warned lightly.

The man sneered. “Says who?”

“Uh, me?” Jason pointed out. “I literally _just_ said it, come on, pay attention.”

The girl was taking advantage of the dealer's distraction to back away. Smart kid.

“I don't know who the hell you think you are,” the man said, “prying into people's business like that. But maybe you're the one that should lay off, buddy.”

Jason tilted his head to the side in consideration. “Nope.”

And then the man lunged at him. It was, all things considered, a disappointingly short fight. All hand to hand combat, a few well aimed punches and the guy was out like a light. Jason ached for the weight of his guns in his hands, but he had to admit that even a non-lethal shot would be overkill in this situation. Besides, he had no interest in scaring the kid, who was still watching from the corner of the street.

Jason dragged the unconscious man until he was slumped against the nearest wall and waved at her cheerily. “Hey there. You're good to go home from here?”

Eyes narrowed, she nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Well, stay in school, don't – uh. Good luck with getting clean – really. I'll make sure this guy doesn't make it any harder than it has to be.”

She inched a little closer. “Who are you?”

“A good Samaritan?” he offered. She raised an eyebrow, skepticism evident. “Fine, somebody who has a bone to pick with shitheads who deal to children. It's a long story, super sad. You really should be heading home now.”

“I –” she started, then paused. “Thank you. I'll just –”

She made an aborted hand gesture and sprinted away.

Jason turned his attention to the unconscious scumbag. Taking him down had been the easy part. Now came the part where he had to ensure he wouldn't be pulling something like this again, without causing any permanent damage.

“See, Bruce?” he murmured. “This is where being a crime lord comes in handy.” He kicked the man awake. “Now, dipshit, let's see who you work for.”

Even then, he'd meant for it to be a one time thing. He had no illusion that putting the fear of god into a few street level operatives was going to make any sort of impact. Going after their bosses might, but then again, that was Jason's problem – he wasn't _supposed_ to make an impact. He couldn't take on organised crime, much as he wanted to. Hell, he didn't even have the resources for it.

But the next night, on his way to the docks he came across a mugging that quickly turned violent when the victim tried to defend himself. Jason swooped in and knocked out the mugger just as he reached for his gun, thinking that Bruce might even be proud of him for this one. The scared man who got back his wallet and avoided having his brains splattered across the pavement certainly seemed happy with the development.

The night after that, he witnessed an armed robbery at a greek restaurant just around closing time. For this one, he had unexpected help. The owner, an elderly greek lady who barely came up to Jason's hip, threw a clay plate at one of the robbers' heads with scary accuracy. She appeared entirely unfazed by both the attempted robbery and Jason's interference. Only in Gotham, honestly.

On the fourth night, he found a young woman overdosing, slumped against the side of a street in the Bowery while people walked by, oblivious. It was evident that she was either homeless or unable to go home. He almost started taking her to Doc Thompkins' clinic – Crime Alley being a short walk away – only to realize with a jolt that it didn't exist yet. He stole a car and drove her to Gotham General instead. He couldn't stick around to see what happened to her.

After that, he stopped pretending he'd quit anytime soon. He started wearing his armor again, jacket zipped up to hide the emblem. He initially shied away from the helmet, but a moderate concussion after a scuffle motivated him to re-examine that choice. He tried not to think of the implications of the Red Hood operating in Gotham before the Red Hood Gang even existed.

* * *

On the third Sunday, Jason had the day off from work. When the day came, he took full advantage of it by spending most of it napping. He woke up every now and then, rolled into a different position or shuffled into the bathroom for self-evident reasons, and promptly went back to sleep.

It went like this until, sometime in the late evening, the ringing of his phone startled him awake for good. His mind was so disconnected that for a hot minute he thought he was back in his own Gotham, cursing under his breath because the call probably meant a Bat-crisis of astronomical size. He found himself sitting up with the phone pressed to his ear before he could register what was wrong with that thought.

“What happened?” he barked, voice rusty and heavy with sleep.

“Jason?” a small voice asked in a whisper. A kid's voice. “Jason, I need help.”

And then it all came crashing back and Jason groaned in frustration, falling back against the mattress with enough force to make it squeak in protest. It was a bittersweet blurr of emotions – relief none of the Bats were in trouble after all, sharp disappointment that he was still stuck here, annoyance at being woken up.

“Bruce?” he murmured. “What the hell, kid, I was sleeping.”

“I'm in trouble,” Bruce said, and it sounded so sincere that Jason cracked an eye open again. “Th – they got us. Me and Alfred both. It's dark and I don't know where we are or when they're coming back.”

All the relief Jason had felt went out the window, replaced by ice-cold fear. “Who's got you?”

Stupid question. Unimportant. He should be focused on things he could use to track Bruce down. He was out of bed and gearing up in a heartbeat, phone left on speaker on the nightstand.

“I don't know,” Bruce whispered miserably. “There was a lot of them. Wearing masks. Balaclavas.”

“Fuck,” Jason said eloquently, strapping his guns on, helmet in hand. “Is Alfred with you now? Do you know where you are?”

“He tried to fight them. They knocked him out,” Bruce said, voice cracking with obvious concern. It was just like the little bastard, to be worried about others even when he was kidnapped. Jesus. “They put us together in a van and – I tried to wake him but he wouldn't –”

“It's alright,” Jason reassured, because he could hear the escalated panic in Bruce's voice. “Do you have any idea where they took you?”

“I think we're still in Gotham,” Bruce said hesitantly. “The drive didn't feel like a long time. We were outside Dr Peggy Lewis' clinic when they took us. But it's – I can't see Alfred anywhere. It's dark and there's all these empty pallet racks.”

Jason threw himself out of the window with little regard for a proper landing. His heart hammered in his chest. If this was a Bat-situation, it would be easy. Most of their equipment came with trackers installed, whether they liked it or not. But tracking Bruce's fucking dinosaur of a phone himself with no resources at hand was out of the question.

“Is there anything else you can tell me? Did you get a good look at the men who took you, or the van? Anything can help,” he pressed.

Bruce was silent for long enough to send Jason's anxiety skyrocketing. “The van was blue. I – I can't remember much else.”

Jason cursed internally.

“Alright. I'm on my way,” he lied through gritted teeth, because he still had no idea where the fuck Bruce was. “Stay calm. They're likely holding you for ransom, which means they won't hurt you with no reason. Don't try to escape, don't antagonize them. Don't call again unless it's an absolute necessity. You don't want them finding out you have a phone on you. I'll be there soon, okay kid?”

He hated the way his voice cracked at the end, like a plea.

“Okay,” Bruce breathed, barely audible. “Okay.”

“I'm gonna hang up now,” Jason said, feeling like the worst person alive. “But I'm coming for you. You'll be alright.”

And he hung up before he could hear Bruce's scared voice again. His options were... _limited_ would be putting it too kindly. Taking out the bastards that had taken Bruce wasn't the problem – finding him was. He missed Oracle desperately. But this once, her father would have to do.

* * *

Jim Gordon was having a long day. He, along with every other citizen of Gotham, had been having long days for years, so he didn't let it get to him. He just had this paperwork to finish up, and then he could go home. To his wife. To his baby daughter.

They were the reason he was fighting to make Gotham better every day. Even if it felt like a losing battle more often than not.

Jim sighed. He gave the witness statement on his desk a dull look and decided it was prime time for a smoke break. The paperwork would, unfortunately, still be there when he returned. Jim stood up, chair creaking as he did. Harvey Bullock, his partner, gave him a sympathetic look. Jim patted him on the shoulder before heading up to the roof.

He'd just made it up the stairs and was fiddling to get his lighter working when a figure stepped out of a shadowy corner. At first, Jim assumed it was a fellow officer who'd had the same thought, and he started to grin, only to find himself staring at a man in a bright red helmet, built like a brick house and clad in better protective armor than the GCPD could afford in this lifetime.

Only in Gotham, Jim thought, would you find a guy dressed like he was in a biker gang accosting tired policemen in the goddamn police precinct. Well. Technically, on top of the police precinct, but still.

He'd seen the reports coming in about the man in the red helmet, materializing out of the shadows to stop criminals and then disappearing without a trace. He hadn't thought much of it. So some guy in a weird motorcycle helmet had witnessed a crime and stepped in, somebody saw him and told the tale to his friends over a couple of drinks, exaggerations were made, the story got around.

Now he had to consider that there might be more to it.

“Hello, detective,” the man greeted in a modulated voice. “I could use your help.”

“I'd find that easier to believe if came in through the front door,” Jim said, crossing his arms, “and if I could see your face.”

There was a pause. The man hesitated visibly, then took hold of his helmet and removed it. He was wearing a domino mask underneath – and Jim had to snort in disbelief – but even so Jim could see now that he was more boy than man.

“Bruce Wayne has been kidnapped,” the boy said grimly. “And I may not like it, but I need your help to find him.”

Jim blinked. This was...not what he was expecting. Bruce Wayne, whose parents had been the victim of a still unsolved murder that shook Gotham to the core. And now, if this mysterious boy playing at being law enforcement was to be believed, Wayne was kidnapped. Could there be a connection to the murders, if it was true? And how had it escaped the GCPD's notice but not this boy's?

“We'll send out a squad if you're telling the truth, but I don't see the point –”

“No,” the boy interrupted. “You don't involve anyone else. You know damn well that half of your police buddies are in the pockets of the crime families, and the rest are only exempt because they're too damn incompetent to matter. You'd only be putting him in more danger.”

There was unmasked concern in his voice, the kind you couldn't fake. Jim couldn't for the life of him imagine who this boy was to the Wayne heir, how he had found out about the alleged kidnapping before the police or what his stakes in this were. But there was no arguing that he believed what he was saying to be true, and he cared deeply about Bruce Wayne's safety.

“Then what the hell do you want me to do?” Jim asked, incredulous. “Search every building in this city by myself? That ain't bound to go over well for the kid, either.”

As he said it, he felt an anxious tug at the pit of his stomach. He was surprised to realize he was starting to believe this kidnapping story, despite the many questions that arose.

“No,” the boy said. “He has a phone on him. I have the number. If you can track it and give me his location, I'll take care of the rest.”

Jim gave him a flat look. “And when you say 'take care'...?”

The boy smiled, a terrifying sight. “Don't worry about it.”

Only. In. Gotham.

“Not only would it be _grossly irresponsible_ of me to allow that, never mind aid you in any way,” Jim stressed, “but even if I was willing to believe your intentions are the best, what makes you think you can help him? You're talking about taking on an unspecified amount of armed, dangerous criminals, on your own. You don't think you storming in guns blazing might backfire on the kid?”

“I have been doing this since I was twelve years old,” the boy said in a tense voice. “I know what I'm doing. And I would _never_ do anything if I thought it was putting him in more danger than he already is. But depending on who has the kid, we have no way of knowing how they'll react if they suspect the police is on their tail. I'm telling you _I can take them._ All I need is the location.”

“Kid –”

“How long would it take for the police to confirm Bruce is missing? How long until they pick up the trail? How long until they decide how to proceed, and what guarantee can you give me that _they_ won't butcher the situation beyond repair? You _know_ the state the force is in. You know things aren't working. I know you want to make it better. Give me one chance, one chance to save him. I need your help. Please. I should be able to do this alone but I – I can't. _Please_.”

Jim was horrified to find himself swaying. None of what the boy had said was untrue. He didn't know if he could trust him, but when it came to his colleagues...for most of them, as much as it pained him to say, he knew for a fact that he couldn't.

God, was he really considering this? Sending in a boy, barely an adult, to take on Gotham's meanest – but a boy that was better armed, better informed and if he was to be believed, better trained that much of the police force. No, it was crazy. Crazy and dangerous and entirely unprofessional.

“I know this doesn't make any sense,” the boy said urgently. “But listen to me. We've met before. I hate the cops, but you seemed like a good guy, and it confused the hell out of me. I asked you why you became one. You said _because someone has to get it right._ You knew that nobody else would. You know that now too. Please. Let me get it right.”

It didn't make sense. The claim that they'd met was ludicrous. Jim would remember. But those words shook him, the truth of them. He knew that he hadn't said that to anyone before, but if it was a shot in the dark, it was a damn good one.

“It will not be easy to track the phone without alerting anyone else,” he warned. “And I want you to stay in contact with me the _whole time._ You get a ten minutes head start, and then I'm calling in an 'anonymous tip'. And if you do get the boy, you turn him over to police custody ASAP _._ Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” the boy agreed, shoulders sagging in relief. “Thank you for this.”

“Don't thank me yet,” Jim grumbled. “Just give me the number before I change my mind.”

He really, really hoped he wasn't going to regret this.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry this took so long. I was on vacation until recently without my laptop. Hope you enjoyed.  
> Come talk to me on [tumblr](https://acrobatgrayson.tumblr.com)!


	8. Chapter 8

Jason sped through the streets of Gotham on yet another stolen motorcycle – it was becoming a habit – and prayed to anyone that might be listening that he wasn't too late. Bruce hadn't called again. Jason couldn't decide if that was a good or a bad thing.

The location Gordon gave him pointed to an abandoned warehouse on Falcone turf that used to store electronics. It troubled Jason because as far as he could tell, there was so little value in the surrounding area that, while technically part of Falcone's territory, in practice it was indifferent to him. Why Falcone would need to kidnap a boy billionaire and then stash him in a place he _literally never used_ was beyond Jason's comprehension at the moment.

“I'm there,” Jason muttered into the comm Gordon gave him, parking the bike far enough that he could be sure no one had heard him approaching. “Fuck it all, I hate going in blind.”

“I've called in the tip,” Gordon told him. “You could always just wait for the police to do _their job._ ”

“Fat fucking chance,” Jason said with more heat than he'd intended. He knew Gordon was a good guy and that Jason was in his dept right now, but with kid Bruce in danger he couldn't be bothered to mask his distaste for cops. “Are there ransom demands yet?”

“No,” Gordon said.

“Fucking morons,” Jason cursed. “Figures, doesn't it? Goddamn _fucking_ amateurs.”

“Would you be happier if he'd been snatched by professionals?” Gordon asked, heavy with sarcasm.

So that was where Babs got it from. God, what would Jason give for Babs to have been here. Or Dick. Even Tim or Damian. Maybe not Bruce. Bruce being here was his problem in the first place.

“Yes,” Jason snarled, lowering his voice as he got closer, scanning the building for an entrance. “Pros are less likely to kill or injure him by accident. These guys, I wouldn't put it past them to try and knock him out and end up offing him instead.”

“Sloppy, for Falcone men,” Gordon admitted, troubled.

“Yeah. I'm going in now. I'll shut off the comm,” Jason warned. “We can chit chat when the kid's out of danger.”

“Good luck,” Gordon said earnestly.

It sounded a lot like _please tell me I made the right choice._

Jason took a steadying breath and went in. He took the two guards at the back door quietly, without a fuss. A simple chokehold that had them out like a light. It wouldn't keep them out of comission for long, so Jason's window to act was marginal.

As he slipped further inside, sticking to the shadows, a gunshot rang out. Jason's heart climbed to his throat. A hand flew to his thigh holster, the feel of his own gun under his fingers grounding him.

It'd come from the service area. Jason hesitated. From what Bruce had said, he had to be kept in the storage space, but if he wasn't where the gunfight was, then he wasn't in immediate danger. It was better to deal with this first rather than try to free him and then run into armed thugs with the kid in tow.

The shot was followed by another. If Jason stretched his ears, he could hear the faint echoes of a scuffle. He followed the noise into a management office, kicked the door open and barged inside with a gun in each hand.

The sight would have made him smile if it didn't scare him half to death. Alfred was on the ground, dried blood on his head, wrestling with a goon. Two more stood at a distance, struggling to get a clean shot. Jason provided a much easier target. They turned to him and fired, a rain of bullets coming at him, but he'd anticipated this and ducked to the side with a roll before aiming two consecutive shots at the first guy's kneecaps.

He fell with a shout, and it distracted the other momentarily – it was enough for Jason to lunge at him, bringing his gun down hard against his head. The goon made a last ditch attempt to shoot at him, but Jason grabbed his wrist and twisted, the bullet ricocheting off the wall.

“And then there was one,” Jason declared, allowing menace to seep into his voice as he knocked out the goon with another hit to the head.

He moved on to the remaining one and dragged him away Alfred, though by the sorry state of the goon, Jason would say Alfred was doing pretty good on his own. Alfred rose to his feet and dusted off his clothes before nailing the guy with a swift punch. Jason let him fall to the floor with a surprised laugh, the sound distorted through the helmet.

“I suppose thanks would be in order,” Alfred told him primly as he bent down to retrieve the thug's gun. “My ward –”

“I'm going to get him out of here,” Jason promised. “But I need you to stay hidden and away from the fight. Can you do that?”

It was far too easy to read the mistrust in Alfred's guarded expression. “I will not sit idly while Bruce is in danger.”

“I get that, I really do,” Jason said. “And I have no doubt you could hold your own. But you're the kid's sole guardian. As much as this is self-defense, you don't need to implicate yourself. We both know social services would jump at an excuse to take him away from you.”

“Oh we both know that, do we? I see you're very well informed, Mr...?”

Jason shook his head. “We don't have the time for this.”

“I will play along,” Alfred said. “But the moment it looks like you're going to fail, or that you have intentions other than getting us out of here, I will do whatever I must.”

And that was Alfred all over, his no-bullshit attitude, his ruthless determination. This was a man as likely to roll up his sleeves to bake a cake as to punch you square in the jaw. When he said _whatever I must_ he meant it. He didn't shy away from what needed to be done.

Jason grinned. “I would expect nothing less.”

* * *

The storage space was more heavily guarded. The kidnappers had heard the gunshots and were on alert, especially when the two men they sent to check up on the situation never came back. There was at least a dozen of them scattered across the room, Bruce right in the middle of it with his hands and feet tied. He'd loosened the bonds around his wrists enough to manage the earlier phone call, but was cleverly keeping his hands together behind his back and giving no indication of it.

Jason climbed the metal ceiling rafters and got into position, nodding reassuringly to Alfred who remained hidden behind a rack at the far end of the room. Jason took a deep breath and then started firing rapidly, on the move before they had a chance to get a lock on his location.

The first round took down three. But the trouble with being so vastly outnumbered meant that they could fire absolutely anywhere, and thanks to their numbers still have a chance of hitting him, while he had to take the time and make each shot count. He was trying to avoid killing, too, if only for the sake of the eight year old being forced to witness the shootout. It couldn't be fun for him to watch, so soon after his parents.

He drove them as far away from Bruce as possible, not willing to take his chances with stray bullets. Two shots found their aim but bounced off Jason's body armor. Still hurt like a motherfucker. One more got him in the shoulder, the bullet wedged between his armor plates.

Jason jumped down and used his momentum to take down one thug, then dove behind a rack and pushed it towards the rest of them. They scrambled to get out of the way and Jason nailed two more. The shoulder wound was making it somewhat challenging to aim with his right hand. Jason gritted his teeth.

One by one, they fell. Jason's ears were ringing and he'd a acquired another injury, a graze on his thigh. Had it been a little deeper, a little more centered, he could very easily be bleeding out. He took down the last of the with a hard kick to the stomach and two consecutive shots in the kneecaps. All things considered, he thought he was showing tremendous restrain.

He watched with a knot in his stomach as Alfred rushed to Bruce's side, untying the boy with hurried whispers, met with shaky assurances that Bruce was fine, just fine and _it was your safety I was concerned with, Alfred, a man of your age –_

At that point, Alfred cut off the boy with a tight hug. Bruce laughed quietly in relief, a choked sound that turned into a sob. Jason had to turn away, stalking to the far end of the room. He allowed himself a moment to exhale. Bruce was safe, and Alfred was with him. Police would be on the scene soon.

He turned his comm back on. “It's done,” he told Gordon with a sigh. “All good. Both hostages safe and unharmed. Kidnappers are down.”

“You're still there,” Gordon said. It wasn't a question, but Jason grunted an affirmative anyway. “Son, even in this town, there's no way you're walking away from this. The force may not be all that it should, but they're not very tolerant of people taking justice in their own hands. If I were you, I'd hightail it out of there.”

“Didn't know you cared,” Jason said with a grin. “What do you wanna bet the thugs are going to be walking free by the end of the week? Unless of course after this stunt Falcone decided they're dumb enough to let them rot in prison. Who knows.”

“I'll do what I can to ensure charges are filed,” Gordon said tiredly.

“Alright, good talk, com – Gordon,” Jason caught himself at the last moment. “Gotta go now. Duty calls.”

“Remember you owe me some goddamn explanations,” Gordon grumbled.

He switched off the comm again and chanced a look at Bruce and Alfred. They were still standing close together, talking quietly. Bruce looked up, glancing at Jason briefly, and said something in a hushed tone. After a moment's hesitation, Alfred gave him a tight nod.

Bruce squeezed his hand once, reassuring, before making a beeline for Jason. His eyes were clouded and his expression closed off, but Jason noted with no small amount of relief that he had no physical injuries.

“Jason?” the kid asked carefully, uncertainty coloring his voice.

Jason hesitated for the briefest moment before taking off his helmet. There was no point in denying it if the kid had already connected the dots. He was acutely aware of Alfred watching them.

“Hey, kid,” he greeted, forcing his voice into a gentle tone he wasn't quite accustomed to. “How you holding up?”

Bruce blew out a breath, steadying himself. “I'm fine. Better now than before, that is.”

“Yeah. Listen, that was some scary shit you went through. You got every right to be shaken up,” Jason said lamely.

“I wasn't sure you'd make it,” the boy admitted quietly. “But you did. I'm not hurt.” He shook his head. “That's better than what a lot of people get. I was tremendously lucky and –”

His voice broke.

“Fear has a funny way of not going away as soon as the danger does,” Jason said, feeling grossly unqualified for this discussion. “Fuck, I'm still scared – every second of every day – of something that happened five years ago. You could've been hurt, so could Alfred, and it's okay if that affects you.”

Bruce blinked rapidly. Jason suspected he was holding back tears. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “If you hadn't...”

“If I hadn't,” Jason echoed, giving the kid's shoulder a squeeze. “I'm sure Alfred would've handled it. He's a badass, you know?”

“Yeah,” Bruce said. “Yeah.”

Without warning, he launched himself at Jason, hands curling around the fabric of his jacket. It took a moment for Jason to register that this wasn't an attack, it was a hug, and even then he wasn't sure how to react. He let Bruce hold onto him and tentatively brought a hand up to ruffle the kid's hair.

* * *

When Jason couldn't delay leaving any longer, he pulled Alfred outside for a much needed chat.

“I must admit this was not how I was expecting to run into you again,” Alfred told him.

“Believe it or not, I was planning of steering clear of you,” Jason said. “But then the kid called me saying someone had grabbed you both and – what was I supposed to do?”

Alfred gave him this long look, like he was a puzzle. Jason thought about how easily his own Alfred saw through him, and his chest ached.

“Do not take my caution for ingratitude. I'm...quite aware of what we owe you.”

Jason shook his head. “No, fuck that. I mean, I'll take the gratitude and all, but you don't owe me anything, never will. That's not what this is about. So don't you worry I'll come calling in favors, okay?”

“Nevertheless,” Alfred stressed, “I assure you that neither I nor master Bruce will ever forget about this.”

Jason grimaced. “I was afraid of that, yeah.”

Preserving timelines had been pretty low on his list of priorities after hearing Bruce's terrified voice on the phone, but there was no denying he'd made quite the splash. As the world had yet to collapse around him, Jason did his best not to think about it.

“Listen,” he went on. “The cops are gonna be here soon, and I doubt they'll be as appreciative of what I did as you and Bruce, and I'm not gonna stick around to get arrested. Uh, if you did find out where I live, maybe don't tell them? It'd be a pain to have to relocate.”

“All I know,” Alfred said meaningfully, “is that an armed individual with a red helmet rescued me and my ward from our captors. To the best of my knowledge, I have never met this man before in my life, neither am I capable of providing a facial description, as he kept his features concealed at all times.”

Jason turned away to hide his grin. Alfred was Alfred and he was the _best,_ in any incarnation of him, at any point in time.

“But do swing by the manor at your earliest convenience,” Alfred added as Jason made to leave. “I believe we have much to discuss.”

* * *

Gordon was already waiting for him on the GCPD rooftop when Jason got back. It gave him a not entirely welcome sense of deja vu, a mental trip back to his Robin days. Jason ignored his discomfort and landed with a needlessly theatrical flip, grinning wolfishly as he took off his helmet.

“Let's agree to keep this brief,” he said. “Don't know about you, but I'm beat.”

Gordon gave him a slightly disturbed look. “I imagine taking on a dozen of armed men by yourself can have that effect.”

Jason gave a one-shouldered shrug, careful not to exert his injured right shoulder. It needed patching up sooner rather than later, actually, now that he thought about it. But business first. “More than a dozen. And it was child's play. Which I want to talk to you about, actually – I've been turning it over, and I don't think these were Falcone men at all.”

In addition to being true, the revelation had the added benefiting of distracting Gordon from his questions about Jason himself. “What makes you say that?”

“We both know they were amateurs,” Jason said. “The whole ordeal was a disaster, grabbing Wayne's guardian along with him, failing to make ransom demands within a logical time frame. And while they could've been new hires, I doubt they'd be assigned to a job like this. More than that – Falcone's at the top. He's secure. He already has the money and power; what's his motive in kidnapping a minor celebrity?”

“All true enough,” Gordon admitted with a grimace. “But they took 'em to Falcone's turf. Who the hell would have the balls to pull a stunt like that?”

“The area is essentially of no interest to him. I can imagine two scenarios. One, they were acting with his knowledge and permission, which is likely enough if they had no area of their own to operate in. Still, there's no hard evidence. We'll have to see what the testimonies reveal. And two...”

Jason hesitated. He _had_ been planning on bringing the police in on this. And Gordon was trustworthy, while Jason's attention was split. He'd neglected this. Maybe if he hadn't, Bruce wouldn't have been taken.

“For a few weeks I've been investigating a rumor about a new gang planning to make a play for parts of Falcone's territory. Small fries, but ambitious as hell – matches our guys to a T. Maybe they're already snatching the bits and pieces he doesn't care about losing. Smart. I'd heard they were gonna move in on one of the cargo ports, but now I'm thinking it was leaked on purpose, as a distraction. I'd keep an eye out, even though I have a feeling that with the disaster tonight they won't have the manpower for hostile takeovers any time soon.”

“Hard to believe anyone had the resources to take on Falcone in the first place,” Gordon said with a frown. He paused. “Goddamnit. That's why they took Wayne. An operation like that would need serious funds, and what faster way to get them than ransom money?”

“And what better way to make a name for themselves than to kidnap the boy billionaire who's been on the news non-stop ever since his parents' murder?” Jason added, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fuck it all. I should've seen them coming. I...”

Suddenly it was very difficult to think. A dizziness had been steadily seeping through his consciousness for some time now, but he'd done his best to push it away. He just had to focus for a little while longer, and then he could go home and collapse like he wanted to.

“I...” Jason tried again.

His vision blurred. He heard Gordon's shout as his feet gave way under him, and then the lights went out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For everyone who said they wanted to see Jason come in guns blazing, I hope this didn't disappoint! Fight scenes are not my strong suit, but hopefully I did this one justice.  
> I just wanted to let you know that updates MIGHT be a bit more sporadic because I want to focus on the novel I'm writing. But I still have plans for this story and no intention to abandon it, don't worry.  
> If you want to talk, hmu on [tumblr](https://acrobatgrayson.tumblr.com)


	9. Chapter 9

 

When Jason came to, he knew immediately that he was in a stranger's house.

He'd never seen this particular ceiling before, a yellowish white color with a moisture crack in the corner right above him. He'd never lied down on this particular couch, too short for his limbs but soft and comfortable. Neither of these things gave him a clue as to where he was, and Jason couldn't register much else at the moment.

Jason made an attempt to sit up but found that he was significantly heavier than he remembered. He settled back against the couch pillows, suddenly finding something menacing in their fluffiness, like if he wasn't careful he'd sink into them and never get out again.

“Fuu...” Jason tried, voice breaking. “ _Fuck._ ”

“A legitimate summary of my diagnosis,” a cheerful voice said.

Jason turned his head with effort. Standing in a doorway that seemed to lead to the kitchen was a woman in sweatpants and a hoodie that swallowed her whole. It took Jason a moment to place Leslie Thompkins, hair black and pulled into a loose bun where he'd only ever seen her with a gray long bob. But it was her alright, the same kindness in her eyes and the same chronic exasperation at the shit her patients got into.

Jason felt a smile spread across his face almost against his will. “'ey, doc.”

Her eyebrows rose. Jason belatedly remembered that he wasn't supposed to know her yet and made a hissing noise, annoyed with himself. Doc Thompkins approached him with a frown.

“How are you feeling?”

“ _Ugh_ ,” he said eloquently. He was having serious trouble stringing sentences together. “You gimme drugs,” he tried to ask, but it came out more like either an accusation or a request.

“Afraid so,” Doc Thompkins said with a tight smile. “I doubt you remember because you were pretty out of it, but you were in a great deal of pain.”

Jason grimaced. “Say sumthin' stupid?”

“Tried to convince me the bullet lodged in your shoulder was acquired in a game of laser tag.”

Jason snorted. “Ha. 'nspired. Wha's my damage?”

“Well.” Doc Thompkins' expression turned severe. “Aside from fatigue, a concussion, the graze on your thigh and excessive bruising along your ribs and back? The bullet in your shoulder punctured your posterior humeral circumflex artery.”

Jason laughed softly. It was a funny name. Funny, needlessly long name. Sounded bogus. He knew enough anatomy to know it was very much real, but it _sounded_ totally made up.

“Kid, if Jim hadn't gotten you here when he did, you could've bled out,” Doc Thompkins said.

Oh, well. That answered the question of what the fuck he was doing in Leslie Thompkins' house. Good to know. It would've bothered him if he was in a state of mind to think properly.

“'Doesn' matter, doc,” Jason said with a shrug. “Duhh...died once. 'N so wha'?”

Her expression softened. “You should get some rest.”

Jason frowned. “'m not lying.”

“Alright,” she agreed. “You can tell me all about it when you're feeling better, yes?”

“'m _fine_.” Jason made another effort to get up. He managed to pull himself into a sitting position and frowned, critically inspecting the bandages wrapped around his upper arm and thigh. “I want my jacket.”

With a flat look, Doc Thompkins reached behind him and retrieved Jason's leather jacket from the armrest of the couch. Oh. Now he felt stupid. He snatched it and pulled it on, grimacing as the movement sent a stab of pain through his shoulder.

“Yeah, I wouldn't move it much for a couple of weeks. Stay where you are.”

She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of iron capsules and a glass of water. Jason took them with a grimace.

“I can prescribe you some pain medication as well,” Doc Thompkins said.

“Drugs're addictive and expensive besides,” Jason grouched. A thought occurred to him. “Did...did co– detective Gordon just...drop me off here? Did he say why I was...?”

Doc Thompkins smiled. “I didn't ask. And he was worried about you – I wouldn't be surprised if he came by later to see you.”

“Well, _that –_ ” Jason swayed a little as he stood, “–will be a fruitless endeavor.”

Gordon had been helpful and all, but Jason had no guarantee the man wouldn't try to take him in or at least question him, and he was in the mood for neither.

He retreated to Doc Thompkins bathroom and put his armor back on, doing his best not to aggravate his shoulder. It wasn't the easiest of tasks. Though Doc had undoubtedly already seen the red bat symbol, he zipped up his jacket over the chest plate out of habit. Doc Thompkins handed him his helmet as he came out again. The domino masked she hadn't taken off, which he appreciated.

“Bye, Doc,” he called. “Sorry for being a giant bleeding mess and all. Thanks for everything.”

She walked him to the door.

“I'd prefer it if you stopped doing whatever you did to get shot,” she told him, a gentle admonishment in her tone. Jason winced. Alfred and Doc Thompkins were like the king and queen of guilt trips. “But if you're ever in a tight spot again, know that my door is always open.”

Jason felt warmth flood through him. He knew the moment she said it that he wouldn't take her up on it, but the gesture meant a lot. 

“I'll keep it in mind, Doc,” he said hoarsely.

* * *

It was almost dawn when Jason made it back. The buzz of the painkillers had faded. It gave him some much needed clarity – at the cost of a dull, steady ache spreading through his body. That was fine. He'd take pain over the fog in his head any day.

“Home sweet home,” he muttered to himself as he stepped inside with a bitter and feral grin.

Looking at the living room, you'd find little evidence of Jason's presence. This was the home of strangers – he did not want to disturb it any more than he needed to. Some things were inevitable – using the pans and pots, changing the sheets – but he planned to restore everything to the way it was before he left.

His initial assumption that he'd be back home by the time the owners returned now felt like optimistic folly. It had already been eighteen goddamn days. Keeping count was a dreary task, but an important one. It wasn't even that this world was so horrible, if one ignored trouble-magnet eight year olds and the possible consequences of messing with temporal forces. It was just that every moment he spent here was a moment  _lost_ from his life, his real life. 

There was already the year he'd spent dead. Did he have to lose more? Maybe by the time he made it back Bruce's collection of orphans would have reached double digits. Maybe yet another catastrophe of epic scale would have befallen Gotham. Maybe one of the idiots he only called family in the privacy of his own mind would get themselves killed because Jason wasn't there to watch their backs.

_ If  _ he even made it back. 

But that line of thinking was not productive, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Bruce's grouched. Jason wondered what the rest of them might tell him. Dick would give him some cliched pep talk about never losing hope, or possibly he'd go the mushy and sincere – and  _embarrassing_ – routine and say that he knew Jason would always make his way back to them. He'd done it before, hadn't he?

The others were harder to gauge. Tim might spare him the awkward words of comfort, but his insight would be invaluable. Hell, if it was  _him_ stuck in the past, he'd probably find a way back before any of them had the time to notice he was gone. Damian, in all likelihood, would default to what he knew best: being a condescending brat. But you always had to look beneath the surface with Damian – Jason would probably get mad at first, then look back on it and realized Damian's words had been exactly what he needed to goad him into action.

Any of it would be better than this silent apartment that Jason did not belong in any more than it belonged to him.

“This line of thinking is not productive,” Jason mocked himself, lowering his voice in an imitation of Batman's growl.

He had better things to do than sit around and mope. He traded his suit for a pair of sweatpants. He made himself go through the dreary task of cleaning his armor and his guns, doing a routine maintenance check out of habit. Maybe Bruce would never dream of taking up firearms, but he'd drilled it into Jason to keep his equipment in good shape, whatever that was.

The kitchen table, with all his weapons laid out and neatly arranged, was the one thing that gave the place a very “serial killer's den” vibe, Jason had to acknowledge. Not a wholly inaccurate description, either. He hadn't wanted to display them so openly, even though it was unlikely anyone else would come inside, but he needed them readily available in cases of emergency – like yesterday.

For a moment, he had the ridiculous urge to take a picture of them and send it to Roy with the caption “this is my arsenal”. Then, of course, he remembered that neither was the phone he currently owned capable of taking pictures, nor was Roy Harper alive in this time.

Jason gritted his teeth and banished the thought from his mind. What he really needed was a shower, not only to clear his head but also because the stench of blood and sweat did not make for a particularly appealing cologne. But with the goddamn stitches in his shoulder that would have to wait another twenty four hours. Going to work tonight would be fun.

* * *

Going to work was not fun.

Jason thought he was pretty good at disguising injuries, a skill that predated his Robin days, but Cynthia got one look at him and frowned immediately. She called him into the back room with the excuse of carrying a crate of vodka that was 'much too heavy' for her, a blatant lie if he'd ever heard one. Jason winced, thinking how displeased Doc Thompkins would be with him for lifting weights when he should be healing.

No. Goddamnit, no, he was getting it all wrong. That was the future Doc Thompkins; this Doc Thompkins didn't really know him, would never see him again, and even if she did she'd care about him only as much as the next patient. Which was still plenty, damn her heart of gold, but –

“What happened to you?” Cynthia demanded as he followed her into the room, Nadia out of earshot.

“What?” Jason asked, blinking and doing his best to look perplexed.

“You think I don't know what someone looks like when they've been in a fight? Look me in the eye and tell me the truth – are you running with a gang?”

Jason snorted. “No,” he said honestly. “Look, I got in a scuffle. What's the fuss? Happens all the time.”

“If there's gonna be trouble,” she warned, and left it at that.

“No, no,” Jason denied immediately. “There's nothing to link you and the bar to any of this, I promise. I wouldn't do that.”

“It's not your intentions I'm doubting. But these things have a way of coming back to bite you in the ass. How bad is it?”

“I won,” he said with a shrug that he immediately regretted. Ouch. “And it's not gonna happen again. Cross my heart.”

Her expression softened. “See that it doesn't.”

“Because it'd be so hard to replace me if I wound up dead in a ditch?” Jason asked with a grin.

“Not really,” Cynthia said honestly. “But you're the first person we've hired that didn't get into a brawl with Nadia within a week or tried to hit on her, so there's that.”

Jason laughed. That wasn't setting the bar very high, but it was easy enough to believe. He'd had doubts about how well he'd get on with any employer at first, but he'd never had an issue with either Nadia or Cynthia so far. He wasn't sure if it was because they genuinely liked him or because he kept his distance enough that they couldn't find much _to_ dislike. Either way, it worked for him.

“See, that's exactly what I mean,” he said with a snort. “You can rely on me not to start any shit.”

Cynthia's eyes narrowed. Jason smiled at her innocently. It was, of course, a bold-faced lie, but he wasn't planning on dragging them into the shit he started. That at least had to count for something. He made to grab the crate he was supposed to bring out, but Cynthia rolled her eyes and snatched it before he could. Through his surprise - not only did she figure out he'd been in a fight, but also located his most serious injury? damn, he didn't want to get on her bad side - and scrambled to open the door and let her through. 

Nadia was standing behind the bar. She smiled at him absent-mindedly as she mixed a mojito, glancing around to make sure nobody was looking before taking a gulp of rum herself. Jason snorted. She passed him a tray of four beers and bowls of chips for table 7. He balanced the tray on a hand and approached the table quietly, catching the tail end of a conversation.

“–but I'm telling you my buddy Frank _saw_ him, okay,” one of the guys was saying. “Said the dude was built like a brick, looked like he was in a biker gang, except ain't nobody knows who he's running with.”

The guy fell quiet as he realized they had company. Jason did his best imitation of Dick's sunny smile, the one that said there was nothing wrong with the world, as he served them their beers. There were three men and one woman, none of them exactly upstanding citizens, if Jason had to take a guess, but not very high in Gotham's underworld, either. 

They'd been talking about him. He didn't know how to feel about the fact that his presence was getting noticed. Even when he went back out on the streets, he'd hoped to keep the whole thing on the low. But if he was being honest with himself, that never really had any hope of working out. Not after meeting Bruce. Definitely not after going to rescue him from a gang in full Red Hood dress up. How long until _that_ bit got the attention of the crime families or the police?

He'd heard a theory somewhere, that even if you traveled back to the past you would be unable to change history, no matter how hard you tried. Everything that had to happen, would find a way to happen. For him, it felt like the opposite was true. What was the point of trying to stay out of the way when he always ended up smack in the middle of it anyway?

He'd been acting like Bruce. Refusing to interfere because he didn't want the burden of the decision – what ought to be changed and what should stay the same. But he should have known that refusing to choose didn't stop the change from happening – it just took away his control of the situation.

He was going to have to start doing things a little differently.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so Leslie Thompkins enters the stage. I should mention, just in case it wasn't glaringly obvious, that my medical knowledge is non-existent. I was afraid that it would be unrealistic to last so long after puncturing an artery, but I checked with two people more informed than me and I was told that what I described was kinda sorta possible? Especially if the person in question was used to fighting while injured and it wasn't a major artery. If any of this doesn't sound right, please let me know!  
> Like I said in the last chapter, I might not update on schedule in the future, but please hmu on [tumblr](https://acrobatgrayson.tumblr.com) if you want to chat, about this fic or anything else.


	10. Chapter 10

Leslie Thompkins was tired.

She'd come home from her third overnight shift in a row, and barely managed to get any sleep before detective Jim Gordon was knocking on her door, dragging an unconscious, bleeding boy inside. Leslie had a strict “treat first, ask questions later” policy, so that was just what she'd done. Except the boy had left after creating more questions than he'd answered.

In the morning, Alfred called with news that made her heart stop. He and Bruce had been abducted. They were unharmed, he was quick to assure her, they'd been rescued, but Bruce was shaken up and if she could kindly come to see him when she found the time? Leslie was on her way the moment they ended the call.

It had been painful to watch the kid withdraw to himself after his parents' murder. Painful but understandable. And now this, so soon after, when he'd already gone through so much. Of course he was shaken up. Hell, Leslie would be more worried if he wasn't. Bruce had been so detached since that night. If he let anyone see what he felt, it wasn't Leslie, and judging from everything he'd told her it wasn't Alfred either.

It made sense, of course. She could understand how leaning on them now might feel like betraying his parents. But she'd hoped in time, as he made his peace with the situation, he would open up. She wasn't sure if yesterday night's events would be the push that got him to do that or if they would only drive him further into isolation.

The trip to Wayne Manor felt longer than it ever had before. Leslie had a series of traffic violations under her belt by the time the large gates opened to let her Ford Focus through. As soon as she parked the car and stepped outside, it was Bruce who greeted her at the door, a grim look on his face as he ushered her in. Leslie frowned.

“Are you –”

“You must examine Alfred,” he told her urgently. “He hit his head during yesterday's...events and was unconscious for...for a long time. He says he's okay but I'm – I have concerns.”

“I'll have a look at him,” Leslie promised. “But Alfred's made of tough stuff. If he's up and about, I'm sure it's gonna be alright.”

That was, of course, stretching the truth a little bit. It _was_ a good sign that Alfred was able to function normally, but that didn't mean there wouldn't be any long term complications. Brain trauma was a messy, complicated thing.

“Thank you,” Bruce said very quietly.

“Of course,” Leslie said.

They retrieved Alfred from the kitchen and headed to the study together, Leslie very sternly informing him that the first course of action would be to examine him. Alfred tried to brush her off, but one wide-eyed, worried look from Bruce was enough to silence him. Leslie suspected that Bruce knew exactly what he was doing.

“Are you going to need a stethoscope?” Bruce asked.

Leslie smiled at him and nodded. She remembered how interested Bruce had always been in his father's work, and she was glad to see some of that shine through now, even under the circumstances.

“Yes, please,” she said. “Also a sphygmometer, a pen torch and a reflex hammer. Do you know what those are?”

Bruce nodded back, seriously, and reached into the drawer where Thomas used to keep his medical kit to give her what she requested.

“Thank you,” Leslie said as she shone the pen torch in Alfred's right eye. He sat very solemnly through his examination. “Hmm. His pupil response is satisfactory. Would you like to listen to his heart?”

Bruce glanced at the stethoscope in his hands and swallowed thickly. After a moment's hesitation, he handed it to Leslie in a hurry and took a step back. “No.” Then, with great effort, he added, “But thank you.”

Leslie accepted that and put on the stethoscope herself, carefully listening for any irregularities in Alfred's heartbeat. This examination was mostly to reassure Bruce's worries – Alfred would really benefit more from visiting a neurologist, just to be sure – but that didn't mean she wasn't going to do it properly.

“It looks good,” she told Bruce once she was finished. “But you should keep an eye out for any signs of dizziness, nausea, loss of balance or loss of consciousness. He _should_ see an expert to confirm there is no lingering trauma. If he hasn't set up an appointment in three days, give me a call.”

“I will,” Bruce said with the full weight of an oath behind it.

* * *

They didn't talk about the kidnapping immediately. Leslie wanted to ask, badly, but she bit her tongue and kept the conversation casual. Bruce was fidgety, hyper-sensitive to any loud noises, nervously glancing around the room every now and then. If Leslie hadn't known him so well, and if she hadn't known about yesterday, it would have been easy to attribute it to his more public recent tragedy.

But Bruce hadn't _shown_ any of these signs before, however understandable it would have been. He had done his level best not to show signs of anything, anything at all. Grief, anger, fear, whatever was going on inside of him, was never allowed to come near the surface. Leslie hated how seeing Bruce struggle now felt like progress.

He sat with them for a whole ten minutes, then excused himself to his room. Leslie and Alfred exchanged a look. There was a unique sort of comfort in finding her own concern reflected in Alfred's expression.

“What the hell happened?” Leslie asked.

Alfred shook his head. “We were jumped. On the way back from Bruce's therapy session. I should have been able to...”

“Don't do this to yourself, Alfred,” she advised. “Whatever you should or could have done, you can't do it anymore. It's in the past. And if I know you, you didn't go down without a fight.”

“Yes, well. I lost, didn't I?” he asked bitterly. “I'm supposed to keep him safe. That's why the custody went to me. If I can't do that –”

“Oh yes, you're right,” Leslie deadpanned, giving him a critical look. “Martha and Thomas made an iron-clad will to ensure you would gain custody of their beloved son only so that you could act as a glorified bodyguard! Not because you were their closest and most trusted friend, not because you were the only one they knew they could count on to raise that boy with the love and support he deserves. Not because they saw how much you cared about him. It was really only so that you could fight off kidnappers, and if you can't do that then what good are you, Alfred?”

Alfred looked away, almost sheepish. “Point taken.”

“Well, good,” Leslie said, deflating. “Now, how did you get out of there? Did the police...?”

Alfred snorted derisively. “No. Not until we were already safe.”

“So you escaped?” Leslie asked with a frown.

“No,” Alfred said again, and then hesitated. “There was...another individual involved. The police suspects a rival gang member. He shot down our abductors.”

Leslie tried to picture it – a rogue sniper taking down the kidnappers, the answering fire, all of that in an enclosed space with Bruce and Alfred caught in the middle of it – and her heart constricted painfully in her chest.

“But he left you alone?” she asked, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“Yes,” Alfred responded. “Yes, he seemed rather...uninterested in us.”

Leslie shook her head in disbelief. “So what, it was completely unrelated to you? Just a coincidence? And you don't have a clue who the guy was?”

Alfred was quiet for a long moment. “No, I suppose we can't know that for certain. And I can't testify that I _don't_ know him, as he was wearing protective headgear, some kind of helmet that concealed his features entirely. So I suppose anything's possible.”

Leslie's heart sank. Maybe, she thought, maybe it was nothing, but there seemed to be far too many coincidences piling up in one night.

“A helmet?” she asked carefully. “Is that...usual? With gang members?”

“No, it isn't,” Alfred mused, sounding dissatisfied with the fact. His eyes were far away, calculating. “The police officer who asked me for the description thought it could have been a bike helmet, but no.That thing was definitely made for combat.”

“Why? What'd it look like?” Leslie pressed on, mind racing.

“It had eye slots, not a visor,” Alfred said. “No brand name anywhere. All red with black lines. Definitely custom-made. And the kind of hits he simply walked off – it was better reinforced than any bike helmet I've ever seen.”

The description fit. The timeline worked. Leslie nodded mutely and sat there in silence with a conflict in her hands.

There was a reason why she unofficially treated patients in her own home and asked no questions, even the ones other doctors would turn away. There were good people out there caught up in the horrible things happening in Gotham, and sometimes the way out wasn't clear or easy. And there were people who maybe weren't but _could_ be good, could be better, with a push in the right direction. And everyone had a right to safe treatment.

Nothing quite on this scale had happened before, but there had been times when neighbors had come to her with bruises and broken bones and even gunshot wounds. She hadn't turned them away. She hadn't contacted the police, even when there could be no doubt that the injuries had been obtained in some sort of illegal activity. That was not who she was.

She would have never thought to breathe a word to anyone about the boy in the helmet if he had just been another one of her patients. But if he had a connection to what happened to Bruce and Alfred...that changed things. If she was right about this, Alfred would want to know. Keeping it from him felt like a betrayal.

But then...the boy had effectively saved their lives, according to Alfred. Maybe that hadn't been his intention, but he hadn't tried to hurt Alfred and Bruce, even after they saw him take down the kidnappers. And – perhaps the most confusing part – he hadn't found her like any of her other unofficial patients, by word of mouth. Jim Gordon had brought him to her. _Detective_ Jim Gordon.

Clearly, there was more to the matter than she understood. Maybe it would be better to say nothing for now.

She gave Alfred the best smile she could manage. “Well, what matters now is that you're both safe.”

* * *

What Leslie really needed was a few hours to herself to think this through rationally, but unfortunately what Leslie needed and what Leslie got were two very different things. After saying her goodbyes to Bruce and Alfred, she had to head right to the hospital, driving like a maniac to make it in time for her shift.

Gotham General was a miserable sight, eternally overcrowded and underfunded. Leslie often felt like she doubled as an actor along with being a doctor – they saw horrifying things in there, but she pushed herself to wear a smile and keep the cheer in her voice, because if it was hard on her, it was harder on the patients, and they at least deserved to see a friendly face.

There were people who drove or even walked themselves to the hospital in awful condition, because there was no one else to take them and they couldn't afford an ambulance or even a taxi. There were people who stayed for months and no one ever came to visit them. There were people who died alone there and none of the nurses knew who to contact with the news.

Leslie often thought that the hospital perfectly illustrated one of Gotham's overlooked problems, deeply connected to its infamous crime infestation: its isolation. It felt like Gotham was isolated from the world, and Gothamites from one another. And it followed. How were people supposed to _trust_ anyone in a city filled with horror stories and paranoia, where it felt like everyone was out to get you?

So Leslie left her personal life at the front door and tried with everything she had to save the people she could, and for those she couldn't, to at least be a bright spot in their day before they were gone.

She was supposed to get off at midnight, but it turned out to be yet another night of working overtime. It was exhausting, but someone had to do it. Leslie found herself working until the early hours of the morning, and when she got home she had no energy left to do much other than take a quick shower and crawl into bed. The mystery of the boy in the red helmet could wait another day.

She made herself check her voicemail before going to sleep, though. Nothing there seemed like it couldn't wait for a few hours, except there was one from Alfred. It was probably nothing, but after the scare she'd had when she heard about the kidnapping, she couldn't risk it. She played the message just to be sure.

“Apologies, you must be working,” Alfred was saying. “I only...Bruce came into my room tonight with his old man's stethoscope in hand, asking to check my heartbeat. And then he went right to sleep, though you know how long it takes him to fall asleep usually. So I just wanted to say...thank you. I don't know how you did it, but...” A deep sigh. “He looks peaceful, for once. I'm grateful for that.”

The voicemail ended. And Leslie, tired as she was, took comfort in the fact that she'd done something right in this drawn out day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Chapter 10 was going to be very different originally, sticking with Jason and his decision, but I felt like we needed to check up on the other characters before diving into that. Also people seemed to like my Leslie, which is great because this is my first time writing her. I wrote this in a bit of a rush, so I'm just hoping there's some sort of coherence to it.   
> If you want to chat about the story or anything else, hmu on [tumblr](https://acrobatgrayson.tumblr.com).


	11. Chapter 11

If you were going to steal from a gang, the Thorns were a pretty good choice.

Jason was not as familiar with the layout of the criminal underworld as he would have liked, but the fact that they sounded vaguely like they could be a death metal band said everything he needed to know. They weren't quite playing in the big leagues – Jason didn't need that kind of attention yet – but they were getting there.

They were looking to extend, trying to get their hands on the arms dealing business. Unfortunately for them, their oh so noble aspirations were what got them on Jason's shit list. He needed money and he needed ammo – he'd say it was killing two birds with one stone, but that wasn't a metaphor he'd ever be particularly fond of, so.

The deal he was interested in was going down near Port Adams, information he'd extracted from a runner for the gang only hours prior. The runner couldn't have been a day over fifteen, a blond girl with a mean left hook who reminded him of Stephanie a little. He hoped he'd scared her enough to keep away from that kind of business – but she had a Bowery accent and threadbare clothes,  and realistically, her options were limited.

There was, of course, a warehouse. It was always a fucking warehouse. Jason kind of appreciated the criminals' lack of creativity – in an enclosed space, with just him and his opponents inside, he didn't have to worry about stray bullets hitting innocent bystanders.

The whole thing was a pretty lackluster affair, no more than a dozen people involved from both sides in total. Jason itched for a good fight. He'd kept off the streets for a few days, giving his shoulder the chance to heal, and his patience was wearing thin. He kicked in the front door with a grin concealed under his helmet, firing a warning shot into the air.

“I'm gonna give you ladies and gentlemen a chance to hightail it out of here,” he announced, “but if we're being honest, I really hope you don't take it.”

They didn't disappoint. Jason grinned as he danced away from the enemy fire. He was, essentially, fighting with one arm tied behind his back – he might have been well enough to go out, but he wasn't going to be shooting with his injured arm for a while. It made for a welcome challenge. This was exactly the kind of low-stakes, high-adrenaline scenario he needed: nothing to risk here except his own life.

And if that sounded slightly deranged, it was worth noting that he didn't actually kill anyone. When it came to solo acts, he wasn't above putting down the worst offenders. But with organized crime, it was pretty useless to kill anyone but the leaders – and in any case he couldn't completely do away with his sympathy for the street level operatives, a lot of whom had been brought into this life by their circumstances as much as poor choices.

The problem was that he had only so long before they noticed he wasn't shooting to kill, or that he was favoring his left arm, and took advantage. His decision to play nice cost him.

Jason stood over his fallen adversaries, wincing as he stretched his side. At least three ribs were bruised, the happy result of bullets resounding on kevlar, and he was pretty sure he'd torn open his stitches. He felt almost sheepish about it for a moment, before he remembered that in this world, there was no one he had to justify his injuries to. It wasn't a comforting thought.

He grunted as he sorted through the goods. He wasn't interested in the guns, he'd always prefer his own – he had a favorite gun and that was totally normal, thank you very much – but he'd take all the ammunition he could use. Stun devices, too. And oh, they had small explosives, that was always useful. And then of course there was the money that would have served as payment.

He zip tied the thugs and found a nearby phone booth to alert the police. It was unlikely many of them would stay in custody for very long, if at all, but at least he had to hope that the stuff he'd left behind would be confiscated. Not that he was entirely sure they were safer in the hands of the cops than the criminals, but he couldn't carry _everything_ back to his apartment.

 _His_ apartment? Fuck. It was officially moving out time. Hey, he could actually rent a place now.

* * *

Jason couldn't explain what exactly led him back to the GCPD rooftop that night. Maybe a hunch. Maybe curiosity. It took some waiting and lurking in the shadows – two other cops came up for a smoke break before Gordon did – but just as Jason was getting ready to leave, he made his appearance.

Jason stepped out into the light, a little amused despite himself at the way Gordon jumped and tried to hide it. He'd loved the dramatics of it as Robin, but this was different. This was like seeing from Batman's eyes. He thought it made up for his ungraceful exit last time.

“Hello, Detective,” he greeted with a tilt of his head. Gordon had already seen him in the domino, but he'd opted to wear the helmet anyway, partially because it made him harder to read.

Gordon sighed, long suffering. “Kid, you realize I should be taking you in.”

And that was the other reason. Kid, he said. In the helmet, Jason was a dangerous enigma, something to be wary off. Take the helmet off and suddenly it was _kid._ Gordon was what, only a decade older than him now?

Jason held out his hands in invitation. “Wanna give it a try?”

Injured or not, he could take on _one_ cop, even if that cop was Gordon. Judging by the look he gave him, Gordon probably knew it, too.

“Not particularly, no.” Gordon shook his head. “I saw what you did to the guys who snatched Wayne.” 

Jason shrugged. “They got off _easy_. How's that working out for you, anyway? Are they talking?”

Gordon narrowed his eyes. “That's privileged information.”

“Fine, fine, make me find out the hard way,” Jason said with a sigh. “Just trying to help, geez.”

“Is that what you were doing tonight?” Gordon asked. “Helping?”

Ah, well. That. It followed that Gordon would know, of course, but Jason hadn't been sure that Gordon would immediately connect the gift-wrapped pile of gang members to him. He shrugged again, seeing no use in denying it.

“You're welcome,” he said. “Do me a solid and try to ensure those weapons don't end up right back in the hands of gangs, hmm?”

“I don't know what you think this is,” Gordon said, dead serious, “but let me be clear: the Wayne kidnapping was a one time thing. You can't keep doing this.”

“Doing what? Your job? Sorry, but if the –”

“You want to help? You need to stay out of the way,” Gordon interrupted him. “I heard what you said the other day. I get it. But there _are_ good people in the force trying to do the right thing in a city that doesn't want to let them, and you're just making it all that more complicated for them.”

“Detective,” Jason said, “there are exactly two people I know who have worked as policemen that I would be comfortable calling good people. _Two._ You're one of them. And if you truly believed what you were saying, you wouldn't have helped me last time.”

“Those were unique circumstances,” Gordon argued wearily. “There was no time to come up with a better solution. It can't happen again. If you know something, go to the police, or come to _me_ – but don't try to play law enforcement again. At the very least consider the danger you're putting yourself in.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Jason laughed, shaking his head. “Were you even listening to me? I told you I've been doing this since I was a kid. I have better training than your precious police force, not that _that's_ hard.”

He'd heard anti-vigilante rhetoric often enough that it mostly went over his head now. But it was strange here, lacking the precedent there was in his world. There was no Superman, no Wonder Woman, not even Batman to point to. It was a slightly terrifying thought, but he brushed it aside.

Gordon just sighed. “Son, you're what, twenty? What happens when you get caught? I'm sure you think your cause is noble, but do you really want to do time for it? Because no one will see a difference between you and the people you're picking fights with. You'll go to jail. Just stop. There's other ways to do good.”

“I'm not going to get caught,” Jason said simply. “And I'm not going to stop, whether you like it or not. I...I shouldn't have come here. Just do your job as best as you can, detective, and I'll do mine. I'll try to make sure our paths don't cross.”

He gave Gordon a salute and flung himself off the roof, landing into a roll and taking off in a run.

He didn't know why he was so disappointed. He didn't know what he'd been expecting. Sure, the future commissioner ended up working with Batman rather than against him, but even the he had to have had reservations at first. Maybe in time, Gordon would change his mind about Jason. But he couldn't swoop in, years before vigilantes were even a notion in Gotham, and expect he'd be welcomed with open arms.

Wasn't he used to being at odds with the police? The Red Hood hardly invoked trust, even after he'd mended fences with the batclan and all. He was still something of a renounced murderer, in the future – and the police preferred those in three-piece suits, not crime-fighting costumes.

“I'm not Batman,” Jason reminded himself.

And that was a good thing. He had the opportunity to be something different, before Batman even existed.

* * *

Forging your papers in 2018 if you knew what you were doing was fairly easy. Easier if you had access to a supercomputer, and easier still if you had Oracle to do it for you. All the way back in the 90s, Jason could _maybe_ wring up an ID that would fool a liquor store cashier, and that was assuming he got ahold of whatever passed for a computer around here. God, he felt _old._

Jason wanted to do a little better than fooling cashiers, though, so he was going to have to outsource the project. He didn't _like_ having to rely on anyone for the job, because everyone that wasn't Barbara or Tim automatically felt inferior, and because he didn't like the idea of there being another person in this world who would know that Jason wasn't who he said he was. Two could keep a secret if one was dead, and all that. But it was a necessary evil.

Jason Johnson was born in 1968, making him twenty two years old and three years older than he actually was. Or two, depending on whether or not you counted the almost-year he'd spent dead. 'Johnson' wasn't an alias he'd use in his own world, where someone could connect his mother's maiden name to him. But here he had no real identity to protect, so it wasn't a concern. And there was no point in getting a different first name when he'd already introduced himself as Jason to a number of people.

He gave his alias a high school diploma but no degree, because he didn't need to be forging more papers for nothing. He only needed the bare minimum to exist as a legal entity – and so, twenty five days after Jason's arrival in the past, his (fake) signature was on a six-month lease for a tiny apartment in the Narrows.

It was the shortest term he could possibly negotiate, but it was still far, far longer than Jason wanted to consider he might be staying here. With the one month mark coming up and him being nowhere near a solution, it was starting to look more and more likely he'd be stuck for a while. He let himself wonder, briefly - surely by _now_ his absence would have been noticed?

But so what? Even if they bothered to look for him – and an insidious part of Jason whispered that they wouldn't, that they would all be relieved he was gone again, as he was meant to be – there were a million other things that would cross their minds before time travel even came up. It wasn't an unfamiliar concept to the bats, but if he'd simply disappeared without a trace, leaving no clues behind, they might never even think of it.

And so what if they didn't? However Jason had gotten himself into this mess, he was going to get himself out. He didn't _need_ the bats – he certainly wasn't going to lie around waiting for rescue. Maybe he had no idea how or _if_ he would get home, but that didn't mean the time he spent here was wasted. He'd resolved that he was going to make a difference; he needed to stop seeing his situation as a loss and start seeing it as the opportunity he was.

It was time to act. If Jason stopped to think about it, it was strange to be working without restrictions again, with no one to reprimand him for using lethal or excessive force, no one to report back to and no one to stop him. If Jason stopped to think, he'd have to acknowledge that he had no idea what his actions would mean for the home he wanted to return to.

He didn't stop to think.

When most people thought about a drug trade, they pictured hooded figures with shadowed features hunched close together in a dark alley. They would probably be disappointed by the amount of deals that took place in broad daylight, in public or even in people's homes. It wasn't all gang-related activity, either; a huge amount of low-level dealers were just college kids who'd made advantageous contacts and used them to sell weed in their dorm.

These were not the people Jason wanted to go after, but he could follow the trail from the stupid college kids to their suppliers, and in turn the suppliers almost certainly did business with drug gangs. They were the ones the Red Hood needed to have a talk with.

His research led him to an Elizabeth “Bettie” Forrest, unassuming as one could be – she was an accountant, no criminal record, not even an arrest. She lived in a condo in urban Gotham, nowhere particularly nefarious. To get this information, Jason had had to break into the GCPD in the middle of the night and manually go over their not yet digitalised database, an endeavor that was about as fun as looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack.

He tracked down Forrest the next night right after his shift, a little before midnight. She was a Gothamite born and bred and a semi-successful criminal, so it was really no surprise that she pulled a gun on him the moment he landed on the street in front of her in full Red Hood getup. Jason held up his hands, though the pacifying aspect of the gesture was perhaps lost with his own guns visible in his thigh holsters.

“Got a question for you, that's all,” he called out, keeping his distance.

She cocked the gun. “I've heard of you. You seem to be in the business of shooting first and asking questions later.”

Jason gave a shrug, careful to keep his movements slow and deliberate. If he startled her into shooting, at this range, it could do some heavy damage. His chest armor and helmet protected all the important bits, so he'd probably survive if she aimed for the head or chest, but if she was bright enough to realize that and landed a good shot on a limb instead, there was a very real chance he would bleed out.

“Rumors often exaggerate,” he said. “This is about _your_ business, actually.”

Forrest snorted. “Need help doing your taxes?”

“Ah, no, but you'll be the first to know if I ever do,” Jason assured her. “Come on. I get it. I mean, it must get boring, and it doesn't pay that well, does it? Drugs though, that's a blooming business. You knew a guy who knew a guy, it was a real opportunity, yada yada. How am I doing?”

“Are you looking to do the same?” she asked.

She had a habit of answering questions with more questions, unhelpful during investigations, even semi-casual ones like this. But it hadn't been a denial. That was a good start.

“Maybe,” he said. “So, how do I talk to the manager?”

Forrest snorted derisively. “He wouldn't like you very much. None of us do. You know what I love about Gotham? It may be run by the mob, but there's stability. Structure. The hierarchy is clear – everyone knows their place. Then some punk comes out of nowhere, thinking he can do whatever he wants. Messing up jobs, stealing from good people. You –”

“Let's agree that our definition of good people differs,” Jason cut in smoothly, uninterested in hearing a villain monologue. “And I'm not interested in messing up _your_ job personally, so give me a name and I'll be on my way. Who do you answer to?”

“I'm not telling you _shit_ ,” Forrest declared and fired her gun.

She was a good shot. Unfortunately for her, Jason had known the moment she decided to pull the trigger. Contrary to popular belief, the Bats couldn't dodge bullets. They were just really, really good – though Cass was in a league of her own – at reading people's movements. The subtle change in Forrest's stance and the way she tightened her grip on the gun, expression severe and focused, telegraphed her intentions.

He ducked into a forward roll before the gun even went off and lounged at her, the bullet hitting thin air. There was a brief scuffle as he struggled to disarm her without injuring either of them, but finally Jason managed to toss her gun away.

“Now listen,” he told her. “You can give me the name, go about your business like you know nothing, maybe clean house when it comes crashing down. Or we can go to the police with evidence of all the...transactions you've made. Your call.”

He was bluffing, of course, but only insofar that he didn't have the evidence currently. He could get it, if push came to shove. But he had a feeling it wouldn't be necessary.

Hiding discomfort behind a smug grin, Forrest laughed in his face. “Whatever you think you have, the DA's office will never prosecute. I'll be protected.”

“Maybe,” Jason agreed. “Or maybe you'll be murdered to make sure you don't flip on your bosses. Much less effort that way. You wanna take the risk?”

Forrest hesitated. “They're – I don't even know who's at the very top. And they're all protected by the Romans. No one can touch them. You won't even get close.”

“Yes, thank you for the headsup,” Jason said, just a hint of impatience in his voice. “Now talk.”

Forrest eyed her gun again, lying discarded but not forgotten on the sidewalk. Jason stepped into her path and shook his head, a hand resting on his holster.

“Fine,” she agreed. “I'll tell you, but you gotta leave me out of this, okay? I don't want any trouble.”

Jason grinned under the helmet. It looked like his night was going to be productive after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure whether this is common knowledge or not, but the Romans referenced by Bettie Forrest are supposed to be the Falcone crime family. Canonically, Carmine Falcone was referred to as the Roman, and his network as the Roman Empire.  
> Also: no, Jason, fighting a dozen opponents while injured is not, in fact, a "low-stakes" scenario. Don't try this at home, kids.  
> As always, if anyone wants to chat, here is my [tumblr](https://acrobatgrayson.tumblr.com).


	12. Chapter 12

Mostly because it was impossible to ignore a request from Alfred, but also because when he wasn't working or patrolling Jason found himself at loss for what to do, he gathered his courage and made that promised trip to the manor. His mission to learn the in and outs of the drug trade like the back of his hand was progressing, slowly, but he couldn't devote all his free time to it or he'd go mad. And it was unlikely, at this point, that he wouldn't be seeing Bruce and Alfred again, so it would be much easier for him if Alfred could find it in himself to trust him.

So he went, little as he wanted to. He even took a goddamn cab, because for all the changes that he wanted to make in history, _unexplained spike in motorcycle theft_ was not one of them. And soon, far sooner than he'd like, they were at the grand gates, the cabbie giving him a funny look as Jason handed him the cash and let him know it was alright to go. He probably thought Jason wouldn't be allowed in.

“This is Jason,” Jason told the intercom, and then realized there was a chance Alfred still didn't know his name. “Uhh, the weirdo in the red helmet. You told me to visit. I can get in on my own, but I figured...gesture of goodwill?”

Why had he said that? What had possessed him to think that 'I can easily bypass your advanced security system' was a statement that would put anyone at ease? This was already going horribly. He ought to turn and leave now while he still had time. Hell, he couldn't even be sure that this wasn't a trap, that Alfred hadn't just brought him here to call the cops on him.

The gates opened, giving Jason no more time for second-guessing his decision. All too quickly, he was standing outside the front door of the house that had once been his home. Alfred was watching him from the top of the steps, expression grim. Jason's heart sank.

“Come in,” Alfred said.

As they navigated through this maze of a house, Alfred leading and Jason following on his heels, Jason allowed himself a moment to be surprised at how _little_ the manor had changed in the course of almost thirty years. And it was ridiculous, because he didn't even _live_ there anymore, he barely ever stayed in the manor unless it was an emergency of the world-ending kind, but the moment he stepped inside there was a pang of pain and longing in his chest that felt a lot like _home._

He hunted for the differences like his life depended on it – no pictures of any of the batbrats was the most obvious, and as they passed through the dining room Jason noticed some furniture than in his world had been replaced long ago, because it was impossible for Tim and Damian to coexist in a space and _not_ break anything.

It didn't help.

Alfred led them into the kitchen and put on the kettle, a gesture so familiar that it made Jason want to scream. Not for the first time, he entertained the idea of coming clean. Telling Alfred everything. He sipped his tea and kept quiet, wanting Alfred to be the first one to talk, wondering if he was still being evaluated as a potential threat. He couldn't help but notice that Bruce was nowhere to be seen. Alfred must have warned him to stay away.

In the end, Jason's resolve cracked. “How're you and the kid holding up?”

Alfred's neutral expression changed marginally. “As well as can be expected, one would assume.”

“That's good, I guess.” Jason nodded with a grimace of a smile. “I, listen, uh...”

“I will ask this once,” Alfred interrupted, voice even. “How do you know Master Bruce? The bond you seem to share could not have been forged in the time you claim to have known each other.”

“I haven't lied to you,” Jason said with great difficulty. “I don't know Bruce, not really. He just...reminds me of someone. Someone important to me. And being around him, I just...it makes me understand my dad a little better. I know it doesn't make much sense.”

Jason ducked his head in embarrassment. It was a difficult admission, even if it wasn't _his_ Alfred that he was admitting it to.

Bruce the kid and Bruce his dad were different people. Maybe one day this Bruce would become him - it was easy to see _how -_ maybe it made things about the adult Bruce all that much clearer, but the kid was a person in his own right. And Jason cared about him  _in spite_ more than _because_ of his adult self.

Alfred watched him carefully. “And you were willing to endanger your life on that account?”

“To be fair, it doesn't take much to convince me to endanger my life,” Jason joked. And then realized how wrong that came out. He scrambled to fix it. “It's, uh, something of a hobby. Adrenaline junkie, you know?”

Alfred appeared largely unconvinced. “The extent of your skills and your equipment would suggest a much more serious commitment than a mere 'hobby'.”

“Yeah, that's fair enough.” Jason mulled it over. Once again, he had no real life examples of vigilantes to point to. “It's more like my job. Think of me as...hmm. A modern day Zorro, maybe? Or Robin Hood. That's funny, actually, though my dick of a brother would bitch about it, he's his favorite hero. Ha.”

“So you defend the innocent from tyrannical authorities,” Alfred surmised, tone mild and disbelieving all at once.

“Hell yes,” Jason said without an ounce of sarcasm. He flashed Alfred the best grin he could manage, crooked and fleeting. “Your doubt wounds me deeply.”

“Where did you learn to fight?”

“From an old man named Mr Miyagi,” Jason said seriously. He withstood Alfred's blank stare for a few seconds before cracking. “Alright, how much could I fuck up that I haven't already? My dad taught me plenty, then his..uh, ex took over my training. Its a long story. Traveled around the world for a while, picked up some things. It's a bit of a mix and match kind of thing.”

“Your fighting style did seem...complex,” Alfred acknowledged.

“You mean all over the place,” Jason countered with a laugh. “If it works it works, right?”

Bruce had given him an earful on more than one occasion for his slightly unorthodox combination of street fighting, League techniques and his training as Robin. As if Bruce's own technique wasn't some unholy amalgamation of the bazillion martial arts he'd learned just because he _could,_ that goddamn over the top show off.

“I cannot argue with the results,” Alfred said.

It was, essentially, the extension of an olive branch. Not a declaration of trust by any means, but the closest thing to one that Jason was gonna get. He was happy to take it.

* * *

Jason found Bruce in the library, frowning over  _Death on the Nile,_ because of course Bruce was reading a detective story far beyond the average reading level for his age. No surprises there. Alfred had allowed him to check up on the boy before leaving, a gesture that spoke volumes, but he _was_ lingering nearby under the guise of dusting the old tomes and shelves.

Bruce heard him approach but didn't look up, engrossed in his book. “I'm fine, Alfred,” he said.

“Guess again,” Jason replied.

At that, Bruce glanced up in surprise. His eyes were bloodshot, red spots all over his face. He'd been crying.

“Hey, kid,” Jason greeted, forcing himself to smile. He pointed to the armchair next to Bruce's. “Mind if I sit?”

Bruce shook his head. “What are you doing here? Did you find something?”

“No, sorry, this isn't about...” Jason trailed off. Why _couldn't_ he tell Bruce the name of his parents' killer? Joe Chill's importance on a cosmic scale began and ended with the Wayne murders. What happened to him after that was irrelevant. “Let me get back to you on that, okay? I just came to check on you and Alfred,that's all.”

“I'm fine,” Bruce said, a knee-jerk reaction. He pursed his lips, a transparent attempt to hold back a pout or maybe tears. “You know I wasn't hurt.”

“And that wasn't the question,” Jason countered. “Look, you don't have to tell me, obviously, but you must feel like shit.”

Bruce looked away.

“I just keep thinking...I ran,” he said, so quietly that Jason thought he'd misheard. “Then and now. When I was coming out of the cinema with mom and dad, I ran ahead. And that was how – that was _why._ ” He took a shuddering breath. “And then again with Alfred. We were arguing, so I tried to run off. And they kidnapped us.”

Well, shit. Goddamn Bruce and his guilt complex, fuck, Jason was not equipped to deal with this.

“Okay,” he said gently, “okay, but listen to me, that doesn't mean it happened _because_ you ran. There was nothing you could have done that would have changed the outcome in either case.”

Bruce gave him a look, more tired and hurting than any kid ought to be. “But if dad and Alfred weren't distracted chasing me –”

“They'd still be up against some pretty bad guys,” Jason tried to reason. “And it's unlikely they'd win. Your dad was unarmed, I'm guessing with barely any combat training, and the other guy had a gun. Alfred...Alfred can hold his own, yeah, but there's still only so many people you can take on at once.”

“ _You_ did it,” Bruce said, tone accusatory. “I saw you.”

Jason winced. “it still could've turned out badly. And I've spent _years_ training for situations like this. Besides, I was armed.”

Bruce looked away sharply, something too complicated to decipher flickering across his face. “Yes. You...you had...you use guns.”

“I do,” Jason agreed, and resisted the urge to apologize. The only thing that had mattered then was saving Bruce. He couldn't have done it any differently.

“Do you – do you do this a lot?” Bruce asked. “Fight people like...?”

“Yes.”

“And do you always...?”

“I always use guns,” Jason confirmed, feeling shittier and shittier with each passing second. God, adult Bruce would be so proud of his younger self's achievement. “Sometimes with rubber bullets, when I don't want anyone to get hurt. Sometimes not.”

Bruce's hands were shaking a little. “And the people that kidnapped Alfred and me?”

“I didn't... _not_ want to hurt them,” Jason admitted. That was putting it mildly. The fury and fear he'd felt when he'd seen them, remembering how terrified Bruce had sounded on the phone, it was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. When one of the birds were in danger, even Damian, at least Jason knew they could protect themselves. “Look. I realize it must have been awful to see. But you – you have to believe me when I say it was the only way I knew how to save you. I didn't, fuck, if I could have avoided scaring you...”

Bruce scowled. “I'm not scared.”

“You are. That's fine. Sometimes it's helpful,” Jason said. “They'll be okay, if it helps.”

“Okay,” Bruce said, uncertain. Then, “I don't know if it does.” He closed his eyes. “I'm so _angry_! These men, I thought they'd hurt Alfred, and the man who killed my parents, I just want to...!”

Jason stayed silent. Whatever it was that Bruce wanted to do, and by his tone Jason could make a few guesses, Jason couldn't lie and tell him they didn't deserve it.

“I don't want to feel like this,” Bruce murmured, close to tears. “I don't want _anyone_ to feel like this.”

And there it was. That was the moment that Jason knew, both to his relief and terror, that there was nothing he could say or do that would make this child deviate from the path of Batman. Because he'd grown up shielded from the horrors of the real world, but then he'd witnessed something awful, and he hadn't allowed himself to look away again.

How fucked up was that? He couldn't save them all – he couldn't stop all crime – but he still made himself look. He still made sure he knew. When you put it like that, maybe Jason ought to cut him _some_ slack. Not too much, because he was still stubborn and self-righteous and an infuriating _hypocrite_ in adulthood, but. Maybe just a little bit. Maybe just for the sake of this kid.

Jason glanced at Alfred and wondered how he was going to convince the man that it wasn't his fault if the kid burst into tears. He felt out of his depth and deeply uncomfortable. He couldn't promise Bruce that the feeling would ever go away. He couldn't promise him that it'd get easier. He certainly couldn't promise that no one would ever go through something like that again. So what was there to say?

Bruce rubbed at his eyes furiously and sat up straighter in a last ditch effort to appear composed. “Forget I said anything. I'm fine.”

“Hey, no, you don't – you don't gotta be,” Jason murmured. “You've got a lot on your plate, kid. No one's gonna think less of you for not being fine. I mean, hell, I'm a mess at any given time. Not gonna judge you for a well-earned breakdown, seriously.”

“I'm fine,” Bruce insisted. “I don't want anyone to worry about me.”

“Look, I get that, but it's kinda hard to avoid,” Jason said. “You were worried about Alfred the other day, weren't you?” Hesitantly, Bruce nodded. “So how could _he_ not be worried about _you_?”

Bruce gave a small shrug, eyes downcast. “I just...I don't want him to get hurt because of me.”

“People get hurt pretty much all the time,” Jason told him, because pretending otherwise wouldn't be doing the kid any good in the long run. “That's on nobody except the person hurting them. But if you're worried about Alfred, stick close to him. Keep an eye on him.”

It would probably ease the kid's concerns to have confirmation that Alfred was safe at all times, and if nothing else it might prevent him from running off in pursuit of murderers again.

“ _I_ should keep an eye on him,” Bruce repeated, skeptical, like he suspected that Jason was playing a trick on him. “Not the other way around.”

“Oh, sure, if you think he's letting you ought of his sight after this, you've got a new thing coming,” Jason agreed easily. “But maybe it can go both ways. All I'm saying.”

Bruce snuck a glance at Alfred, who was reorganizing a bookshelf barely out of earshot. “Yeah.”

“Good. I should be going, okay?” Jason stood up and gave the kid's hair a ruffle, deliberately messing it up. “And for the record, brat, I worry about you too, so you better stay out of trouble.”

Bruce fixed him with a severe look, hands flying up to his hair to smooth it down again. Jason laughed and turned to leave, giving Alfred a salute before he walked out of the library. He had a sneaking suspicion that he'd be followed right to the front door, just to make sure he didn't stick around and snoop. That was fine. He was nice enough to pretend he wasn't aware of it.

The street kid in him scoffed at the idea of getting a cab yet again, especially when he needed his funds for more important things. Sustaining a vigilante lifestyle was _hard._ His other alternative, though, was running all the way back to Gotham, and while he could do it in little over an hour if he _really_ needed to, then he would never make it in time for work. So cab it was, unfortunately.

He stopped by his apartment only long enough to grab his equipment and stash it in a backpack, as had become his habit, and then headed straight to Grotesque. The earlier he ever got off from a shift was 11, and it was far more practical to patrol directly after than to go back to pick up his shit, even if he'd found a place at a decent walking distance from the bar.

He had a system. A pretty damn exhausting one, because night shifts made patrol hours all that much more complicated, but it worked. And if today he was a bit disoriented because his earlier visit to the manor meant skipping his afternoon nap, well. It probably wasn't going to be a problem.

* * *

 

Jason realized something was wrong the moment he arrived. Nadia and Cynthia were both already there, despite opening time not being for another hour, some unspoken tension between them. Jason had never seen them in a fight before. Now Nadia was scoffing and sneaking glares at her mother as she set the tables.

He greeted them both like he hadn't noticed a thing and went to help Cynthia stock the bar. He weighted his options silently. It could be that the argument they were having was entirely personal and he had no right – or reason – to pry. But that was really, really unlike them. Mother and daughter got on like a house on fire, and they never brought their personal problems to work. Plus, it didn't explain away the early arrival.

“Anything I should know, boss?” he asked Cynthia casually.

Cynthia sighed. “I haven't decided yet.”

“Tell him,” Nadia said, not looking away from what she was doing, scrubbing furiously at a table. “I mean, this affects us all, _right_? That's the whole reason you're going along –?”

“I didn't say I was going along with it,” Cynthia cut her off, voice tinged with irritation. “I'm...I need to think.”

Nadia crossed her arms and turned to Jason, snorting derisively. “Good news! We've received a lovely offer of 'private protection'. Isn't that rad?”

“Private protection...a protection racket?” Jason asked, heart sinking. “Shit.”

 _That_ was almost certainly going to be a problem.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, folks. We're going a bit off schedule because exams are kicking my ass. A couple of points:  
> For the sake of me - a sworn enemy of math - calculating shit easily, the distance between Gotham and Wayne manor is around 10 miles. Comic Vine says it's 12, and while that's probably correct I have no idea where they're getting it from, so...close enough?  
> Also, I didn't see a reason to info-dump y'all with Jason's disaster of a work/patrol/sleep schedule in the text, but I definitely have a lot of thoughts, so if anyone's curious, I'd be happy to talk about it.  
> As always, you can find me on [tumblr](https://acrobatgrayson.tumblr.com) if you want to chat.


	13. Chapter 13

Jason's mind raced. A protection racket. In plain words, extortion. Back when he'd been looking for a job, he'd made sure all of the places he asked at were in neutral territory, and of course so was Grotesque, but clearly the tide was changing if Cynthia had been approached with an 'offer' like that. Clearly, somebody – or _somebodies –_ was, or were, looking to expand.

He should have known sooner. There would have been scouts sent to check the area and to gauge the business owners, see how likely they were to cave when the official offer came. There would have been signs. Jason should have known. Goddamnit. He'd been so busy gathering intel on the drug trade and worrying about annoying little kids with guilt complexes that he'd really just let this happen right under his nose.

He needed to find out who else had been approached. If they'd already given their answer, and what it was. He needed to know who was making the move, when, what manpower did they have, he needed Cynthia to hold off on answering until he knew for sure –

Oh. Belatedly, he realized Cynthia and Nadia both were waiting for a reaction that when a little beyond cursing. They weren't looking for his expert advice, either. Cynthia was informing her employee, a _civilian,_ about a potential work problem.

He cleared his throat. “What are you going to do?”

“I don't know,” Cynthia said with a shake of her head. “If I turn them down, I put everyone who walks into this establishment in danger. Including you. Including _Nadia._ ”

“Seriously, mama? I'm the one who throws the drunks out of the door when they get rowdy,” Nadia reminded her. “I can handle myself, so don't hide behind me as an excuse! If we don't defend our business against this kind of shit, we're setting the precedent for the gangs to walk all over us. We have to fight!”

Cynthia rubbed at her eyes. “Yes. And if I were ten years younger with no family to think of, I'd say fuck the consequences and tell them exactly where to shove their protection. As it is, I'd rather be a pushover than see you get hurt.”

Unfortunately, Jason could see both their points. It was a thin line to walk. Many people made the mistake of thinking the gangs were nothing but big bullies that would lose all their bravado as soon as you stood up to them. But sometimes having the courage to stand up to someone didn't equate having the means, and one thing bullies were insanely good at was knowing when they had leverage. But over-compliance, too, opened you up to all kinds of exploitation.

It was a no win scenario, usually. But this wasn't _usually._

“Are they offering protection from other groups or just threatening violence if you don't pay up?” he asked.

“The first,” Cynthia said. She snorted derisively. “They said it was going to get _dangerous_ around here, and if I was smart I'd make the right friends early on.”

“So it's safe to assume gang violence in the area is going to escalate,” Jason said. With a phrasing like that, it was not unlikely that two or more groups were battling for control of the territory. Fantastic. “Who approached you?”

“The Rileys. Irish mobsters,” Cynthia clarified, although of course Jason knew who they were. They weren't and never would be quite on the Italians' level, but they were still a formidable threat. More importantly, they were a crime family. That meant a level of organization that went beyond your local gang's. Taking them on would be...challenging. “Now off to work, both of you. When I've made my decision you'll know it.”

Time. Jason needed time, but there was no way to ask Cynthia to hold off without exposing himself. All he could really do was nod and bide his time until the shift was over and he could go out, find out more about this. God, there was so much to do, and he was working with a deadline.

Nadia nudged his shoulder.

“Tell me you're not for this,” she murmured conspiratorially once had Cynthia disappeared into the storage room.

“I don't think anyone's _for_ it,” Jason pointed out. He really didn't want to get caught up in the middle of this disagreement. “It's...there's a lot to consider.”

“I get that saying no will put us in danger,” Nadia said, frustrated. “But I don't buy for a second that saying yes will guarantee our safety. What if they wake up one day and decide to ask for more? What if we can't pay them on time? What if they ask us to pay in information or become involved in their operations? It's a goddamn slippery slope and I don't like it.”

She was right, of course. More importantly, Jason realized, she could help. Cynthia had no reason to stall just because Jason asked her to, but she might listen to her daughter.

“Those are some good points, and you should bring them up to your mother," he acknowledged. “Here's another question: who's been approached besides you?”

“I don't know,” Nadia said with a grimace, quickly glancing outside. “I'll have to go asking after hours. Most of the people here know me – even if they're scared, I think they'll talk to me.”

“Go now,” Jason suggested. “I'll cover for you.”

Nadia nodded seriously. “If mom asks, I'm on a very extended bathroom break.”

Jason snorted. Nadia left and came back half an hour later, reporting that all major businesses in the area had been similarly propositioned, and most were wavering. She'd done her best to talk them out of it, and Jason hoped they would listen to her. If most or all businesses turned the offer down, it would be much harder for the Rileys to enforce the new status quo than it would be if they only had one or two unruly ones to make an example of.

Jason tried to map out the exact area they were trying to incorporate into their turf in his head, and if he'd been in his Gotham it would be child's play, but he wasn't so familiar with the businesses here as to be able to immediately pinpoint them on a map. He had a rough idea, but he memorised every name Nadja gave him anyway and resolved to double check it later.

“Another thing,” he said. “The way they talked about picking a side, it indicates they're not the only players. Did anyone get approached by a different group?”

“The Sabatinos,” Nadia said, face darkening. “Italians. Mr Abbadeli, he's got the restaurant down the block, he told me them and the Rileys have been rivals for years. Many businesses got emissaries from the both of them. So they're not even thinking about it as a yes or no question, see? It's who to pick. I imagine we'll hear from them soon enough. And then of course even if we take the protection, and the ones we go with don't come out on top of this, we're fucked. Do you know that I hate living in Gotham sometimes?”

“You never know,” Jason said. “Maybe they'll take each other out.”

Or, at the very least, it would be easier for someone else to take them both down while they were wasting resources fighting each other. But it still felt damn near impossible for him to manage alone. And the more he allowed the violence between them to escalate, the likelier it became there would be civilian causualties.

That night, Jason ended patrol short and paid the another GCPD a visit, though what he found there was even less helpful than he'd expected. Files on the Rileys and Sabatinos existed, certainly, but they were woefully inadequate, and to someone who knew what to look for the corruption was plain to read: the DA's unwillingness to prosecute, evidence that was all too conveniently destroyed in accidents. In a case like this, the quickest, cleanest way to wrap it up would be to find irrefutable evidence convicting both groups' leadership, but now that would be useless. Even if he could give it to them in a way that would make it admissible, they'd still be more likely to toss it out of the window than act on it.

Once again, Jason was on his own.

* * *

Cynthia hadn't made her choice by the next day, and that was a small blessing. Nadia was guarding the entrance, pacing up and down, just to be the one to intercept the Sabatinos' men if they came knocking on the door. Cynthia wasn't blind to it, but she admitted to Jason that she was too tired to interfere when it seemed to be calming Nadia's nerves.

Jason was no closer to solving the problem than he'd been when he'd finally gone to sleep yesterday, however much he had hoped that getting some rest would give him clarity. If he tried to take on them all, he'd die, no doubt about it. If he got them to destroy each other, he'd have no hope of controlling the resulting chaos. If he did nothing...there would be bloodshed, that was certain, among the criminals and maybe reaching the civilians; but in all likelihood he could keep Nadia, Cynthia and even Grotesque safe.

Except that had never really been an option, had it? His boss and her daughter were his number one priority, by virtue of the unfortunate attachment he'd developed, but which part of Gotham and its people _wasn't_ he attached to? There was a reason he could never leave, even this Gotham that was different in as many ways as it was the same; no matter how much it changed, this was _his_ city, for better or worse.

An hour and something into his shift, another problem came looking for him. He was coming out of the storage room when Cynthia caught his eye and motioned for him to follow her back out of sight, expression troubled.

“There's a gentleman looking for you,” she said, and it sounded like an accusation. “Perfectly polite, his suit looks like he could tip more than the rest of our customers put together. He asked for you by name. Jason Johnson, what the _fuck_ are you caught up in? Because if you had anything to do with this protection business, I swear to God–!”

“No, no, I swear,” Jason said quickly. “I would _never_ do that, Christ. I'm not involved with these people. I swear to you I have no idea what this is about. What did he look like, this gentleman?”

Cynthia's eyes were narrowed as she answered, “Tall. Late forties, had the air of a military man. Starting to bald.”

“Oh,” said Jason, realization dawning on him. He sighed in relief. “We're fine. That's Alfred Pennyworth, he's Bruce Wayne's butler and guardian. Long story.”

“How in the hell do you know the Waynes' kid?” Cynthia asked, taken aback.

Jason grimaced. “Kind of a long story. He was...I guess acting out, after his parents died, you know, sneaking out of the house. Saw him skulking around like he had a death wish in the middle of the night, recognized him and took him home. Look, if nothing else you can be sure that Alfred _is_ going to tip well, okay? And I swear he's no trouble.”

“You've been swearing an awful lot in these past few minutes.”

“Sorry,” Jason said. “Just give me ten minutes to see what he wants. Please.”

“Taken out of your break,” Cynthia said, still troubled. Jason smiled in gratitude and turned to leave. “Jason. I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt here. But don't you for one second take that to mean I'm a fool.”

“I know,” Jason acknowledged. “And you don't understand what it means to me. Thank you.”

So far, it looked like she was the only one willing to give him even that; he didn't think for one second that Alfred had tracked him down to his place of employment just to have a casual drink and chat. Nonetheless, Jason went back to the counter and fixed Alfred a drink, setting it in front of him before dropping to the chair across from him unceremoniously.

“Martini,” Jason told him. “Shaken, not stirred.”

Alfre'd eyebrows rose in interest as he took a sip. “Perfect. But I do hope you're not going to be calling me Mr Bond.”

“Might as well, right?” Jason smiled and shook his head. “Gotta hand it to you; I didn't notice you following me this time. I'm impressed.”

“My thanks, but that's because I didn't follow you,” Alfred said. “I merely wrote down the plates of the taxi you called and later located the driver to ask him where he took you.”

“Well, I'm a fucking moron,” Jason announced. “But what else is new. Why are you here, really? Because if this is just a social call, I'm afraid I'm in the middle of a situation.”

Alfred mulled that over in silence for a while. “Not quite, but you don't need to be alarmed. No one I spoke with had a bad word to say about you; not your neighbors, not your landlord, and not the young lady by the door here. I'll admit that I'm not sure what I was expecting to hear.”

“Great, thanks,” Jason deadpanned. “If you're just gonna tell me how surprised you are that not everyone I know thinks I'm a scumbag, could you not? I really am busy, and on the clock. And exhausted.”

“If you're straight-forward in answering me, I'll only take a minute of your time,” Alfred assured him. “Bruce seems to be under the impression that you're going to help him solve his parents' murder. Yet every time he asks you about it, you put it off. If you don't truthfully know anything of use, I would suggest making that clear to him; but if you do, now would be a good time to share that information.”

Jason's heart sank. He buried his face in his hands and sighed. “Yeah, alright. Fair enough. I can give you the name of the man who did it, but I've got no way to prove it. And at the moment I'm trying to figure out how to take down two rivaling crime families, without getting killed or starting a war, so finding a way to prove your killer guilty is gonna have to take a backseat. Sorry.”

Belatedly, Jason realized this information might have been a little too important to drop into the conversation so casually, even if Alfred had more or less demanded he do it. He looked up in concern, mentally berating himself – he was desensitized to the Waynes' murder, because it was something that had always _been_ in his time, the elephant in the room no one talked about around the Manor, and knowing Joe Chill had done it didn't feel like a big deal, but it _would_ be to Alfred. To Alfred, the wound was raw and fresh. He was still mourning.

But Alfred's eyes were hard and determined. “So the sooner this business of yours is wrapped up, the sooner we can get on with it, then?”

Jason nodded, not sure he liked where this was going. “I – yes? That mean you'll let me help?”

“No, it means _I'm_ going to help _you_ ,” Alfred said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *finger guns* witness me neglecting this for almost two months and then waltz in with a plot that I have no idea how I'm going to get out of.  
> Sorry for the delay, folks, thanks for all your lovely comments in the meantime, and as always, you can come chat with me on [tumblr](https://acrobatgrayson.tumblr.com)  
> .


	14. Chapter 14

Nadia had known there was something off about Jason Johnson from the moment she met him.

Not necessarily in a bad way, or at least, she hadn’t wanted to believe that. He kept to himself for the most part, he was efficient at his job, and he had been nothing but respectful to her and her mother from the start. It was obvious that he had his own private troubles, but who didn’t? That wasn’t exactly a character flaw. She would have liked nothing more than for him to turn out to be a regular, albeit eccentric, dude.

Now she chastised herself for her naivety. Had she not seen the way his eyes always scanned the room, restless, aware of everything that was happening, knowing the very moment someone came in or left? Had she not caught glimpses of painstakingly hidden cuts and bruises, winces of pain when he thought no one could see him? Had she not wondered just what on earth had made him so secretive, just why every question about his life before he’d moved to Gotham was met with vague, incomprehensive answers, or some variation of “it’s complicated”?

She’d been curious, and even saw it as a bit of a challenge, but she’d never seriously contemplated the possibility that he was a bad guy. He’d been quiet and private and unassuming at first, and she’d prided herself in seeing it for the mask it was. She’d thought he was starting to open up to her. But now she wondered if the witty, morbid, opinionated _weirdo_ she’d gotten a glimpse of was just another persona.

She watched, hiding in the storage room, as he and the impeccably dressed gentleman with him snuck back into the closed bar. She had been suspicious of him from the moment he walked in - it only raised more questions when he tried to fish information about Jason out of her, and then stayed just long enough to have a brief, whispered conversation with him. 

“You shouldn’t get involved in this,” Jason was saying now, and there was a faint thud as he put something down. Probably that sac voyage he was always carrying around with him. Why had she never searched it? “It’s too dangerous.”

Her heart sank. She’d gone into this hoping to discover that she was being paranoid and suspicious for no good reason. But she couldn’t think of a good explanation for this kind of talk, not on the same day her mother dropped the bomb about the protection racket. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

“You won’t give me the name until this is settled, unless I’ve misunderstood,” the man commented, tone neutral. She’d never heard someone express their disapproval with such indifference.

Jason gave a frustrated huff. “Yes, because then you’ll go after the asshole on your own and you’ll get killed. I won’t give you the name until I know I can help you find him, and I can’t do that until this is over. I’m not withholding the information because it’s fun for me, and I’m definitely not trying to strong-arm you into helping. In fact, I’d much rather you didn’t.”

“Be that as it may,” the man said. “it seems to me that if _you_ die in this endeavor, my only lead on the killer will be lost.”

Nadia held her breath. Scheming and murders. This was just getting better by the second. There were still questions that needed to be answered, such as _whose_ killer they wanted to track down, what would they do to him, and what did Jason need to settle before that? Was that a reference to the looming criminal takeover?

“You realize you’ve put me in a tight spot here, right?” Jason asked irritably. “The owner and her daughter can’t know I had anything to do with this, and there you go waltzing in like Agent 007. How am I supposed to explain that?”

“Funny,” Nadia said as she came out of her hiding spot. “Because I was wondering the exact same thing.”

Jason’s surprise was evident, but it lasted for all of a second before he slumped back in his chair with a resigned sigh. “Not a single goddamn thing can go right today, huh.”

“This is...problematic,” the man in the suit admitted as he scrutinized her. 

She knew, she _knew_ the best strategy had been to stay hidden and discover as much as she could, but she was so furious that she couldn’t help herself. Jason just sat there with a pained expression, not even bothering to try and come up with some pathetic excuse. She’d really thought she could trust this asshole.

She marched up to him and picked up his sac voyage, slamming it on the table. “Show me what’s inside.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you this was a great big misunderstanding, would you?”

Seething, Nadia unzipped the bag herself. She didn’t know what she was expecting to find. Drugs or money or...rotting human heads, or something. Maybe just a big sign that read _Jason is a criminal and a liar and you were an idiot to think that he was your friend._ Instead…

Nadia pulled out the red helmet with a raised eyebrow, followed by body armor, followed by black pants, an undershirt and a brown leather jacket. And a considerable amount of guns.

“I’m going to a costume party?” Jason offered.

“Yeah?” she said. “What are you going as, a lying shithead?”

“That’s fair.”

“Are you in a gang?”

He winced. “No.”

“Are you working for the assholes terrorizing all the business owners in the area?”

“No.”

“Fine. Their competition, then?”

“ _No_ ,” he stressed. “Nadia, look. I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but I’m trying to help.”

She ignored him and turned to the older man. “And you? What’s your role in all this? Are you in on it? Whose killer are you looking for?”

He stared at her for a long moment. “Frankly, miss, if we are gang members, as you seem to think, then I have to marvel at your plan to confront us about it in a locked shop with no witnesses nearby.”

She clenched her fists, squeezing hard enough for her knuckles to go white. “Is that a threat?”

She was good in a fight, but that didn’t mean she was confident that she could take on two men who had several inches and even more pounds on her. She’d been so stupid. Why couldn’t she just stay hidden? Patience, her mom always told her. Be patient. But a lot of the time, it seemed like she was asking her to be a coward. And Nadia wanted to be brave.

“It’s not,” he said, voice kind, “but it would have been one if you were right about us. That was an extremely dangerous thing you did.”

He was right. She hated that. 

“Thanks for the tip, but I’d rather have an explanation.”

“We’re trying to stop them, Nadia,” Jason said, exhaustion seeping into his voice. “Or, well, I was, and then everything had to go and get…”

“Complicated?”

His lips quirked. “Yeah.”

Nadia fell heavily into the nearest available chair. “Christ, you are so full of shit.”

“I am,” he acknowledged. “But I’m not trying to hurt you, or your mother, or anyone here. I swear it. I’m just trying to stop this before anyone gets hurt. This is what I do, what my whole family has been doing for a long time now. We find cases like this, things the police can’t deal with or just turns a blind eye to. And we stop them. Except now...now it’s just me. And as you can see, I’m...well, there’s been a couple of bumps along the way.”

There was an unquantifiable longing in his voice, for this family that wasn’t there anymore for reasons she could only begin to guess at. The way he talked about them, they had to be either dead or out of reach. And yet she remembered him saying he’d ran into relatives, a while back, when he had booked it out of Gotham and almost didn’t come back. He said he’d left because sticking around meant trouble for them. Had that been a fabrication?

 _Anything that matters, I can’t tell them. I can’t even explain to them_ why _it’s a risk to be around me._ Was that what he’d meant? This double life he led, dressing up in a ridiculous costume and seeking out criminals to get into fights with in his free time? It sounded so much like a bad cliche that she couldn’t believe anyone would make it up. 

Which, unfortunately, meant that she was starting to think he was telling the truth, despite her best intentions. She was supposed to go into this all bitter and distrusting. Whatever happened to that?

“Can you prove any of this?”

“Can I prove that my intentions are good? No one can do that,” Jason shot back. “And ultimately, what’s it matter? But I could...point you to people I’ve tried to help out, and you could ask them about it. Including Alfred here.”

“That’s convenient,” Nadia said with a raised eyebrow. She turned to the man - Alfred. “You still haven’t told me how you’re involved in all this. How you know Jason.”

“I have more questions than answers, I’m afraid. But I can attest to the fact that Mr Johnson got me and my ward out of a...predicament, not long ago. All he’s said to me of your situation seems to suggest that he is unaffiliated with the crime families and indeed trying to stop them.”

Some of the tension evident in the hunch of Jason’s shoulders and the clench of his jaw evaporated. He swallowed and glanced away from her and Alfred, staring into the wall, a distant look in his eye. There was always a chance that they were in league and Alfred was telling her this to lull her into a false sense of security, but then, it seemed to her that it would be a lot less trouble to just shoot her on the spot and be done with it.

“Sounds super legit,” Nadia said with a sigh. “So what’s the plan here?”

“It’s...in progress,” Jason said. “They’re already at the brink of a fight to determine who wins the territory - we just need a catalyst. We need to control when and where it starts so we can keep innocent people out of the crossfire. We need them weak and only focused on each other. They’ll drain their resources fighting each other, and then I’ll swoop in and...hopefully do enough damage that none of them will be thinking about expansions for a very long time.”

“So we stage an attack?” Nadia guessed. “Provoke one or both of them, and wait for the response?”

Jason’s eyes snapped to her, alarmed. “Oh, no, not _we_. Don’t start. Alfred’s already pulled that shit with me, and I am not dragging any more civilians into this, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, and if I had a choice, I would be staying as far away from gang fights as humanly possible, believe me,” Nadia retorted irritably. “I’m not crazy or stupid; it’s pretty obvious that our side is comically outnumbered. But I got dragged into it the moment they showed up at my mom’s doorstep, so no, I don’t think I’ll sit this one out, thank _you._ ”

“It does seem that, if it becomes necessary to warn the people of this area, somebody who’s lived here her whole life could prove useful,” Alfred pointed out calmly. “And perhaps to keep an ear out for any information that might be of interest.”

“Thanks,” Nadia said, beaming. 

“That’s...okay, that’s fair. I hear what you’re saying, I do,” Jason admitted. “Just...don’t make the mistake of thinking that’s any less dangerous than outright fighting them. If something goes wrong, if they catch wind that someone’s trying to sabotage them, and your name comes up...They’ll kill you. And if you think that’s a risk you’re willing to take, ask yourself what it would do to your mother. If it’s worth that.”

“If someone doesn’t stop them, we’ll spend the rest of our lives sucking up to people who could kill us on a whim,” Nadia countered. “I don’t see how that’s any better.”

“It’s your call,” Jason said. “I just need you to understand what you’re signing up for.”

“Well, it’s been made,” she said. “If all goes well, I might even consider not telling mom about your extracurriculars when this is over. But we’ll see. I’m still pretty mad at you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t, but I’m honestly too tired to care,” Jason confessed. “Let’s get out of this alive and then we can worry about that, deal?”

“Deal.”

* * *

Bruce stood scowling just behind the doorway, arms crossed, the first thing Alfred saw as he came in.

"You were out," he said.

"Indeed, Master Bruce," Alfred said as he shrugged off his coat. "And how was _your_ day."

"Fine," Bruce sniffed. "Where were you?"

Alfred rubbed his temples. 

Bruce had started school again this week, after Ms Lewis had assured him repeatedly that being isolated from the outside world was the last thing his ward needed; it was vital that he reestablished a routine and sense of normalcy. Alfred had had a long talk with Gotham Academy's principal to ensure the transition would be as smooth as possible, and so far there hadn't been any of the trouble he was expecting. Bruce being occupied in the morning hours also allowed him to come and go with relative ease.

He'd only returned minutes after the time Bruce himself came back from school, but evidently that was an unacceptable error.

"My job does include things other than keeping you company, much as that is the highlight."

His job. Bruce didn't view Alfred as his guardian - he was only ever the butler, as he had been from the beginning. There were some slight inaccuracies in that belief, but Alfred didn't know how to go about correcting them or even if he should. Possibly, it would only serve to further alienate him from his ward. 

"Like what?"

"Like grocery shopping," Alfred said, although it was a poor excuse for today, since he had no bags with him. "Like house maintenance." An even poorer one, as it was mostly an indoors activity. 

Bruce frowned. "You could pay someone else to do that."

"I could," Alfred agreed, and left it at that. "Have you eaten yet, or were you standing here glaring at the door the whole time?"

"I'm not hungry."

The latter, then. Alfred suppressed a sigh, and led Bruce to the kitchen. "Neither have I. Shall we?"

Bruce followed him sullenly and continued to look troubled as they sat down to eat a bite. Alfred saw no need in the two of them using the dining room - an enormous space like that could only possibly be depressing in the face of their small company. 

“There was no need for you to leave,” Bruce tried again.

“What about the need for fresh air?”

“We have extensive gardens.”

Alfred sighed. “Master Bruce, may I know where this sudden disapproval is coming from? You were not here either, so you can’t have missed me.”

Bruce scoffed. “You’re always telling me how _dangerous_ Gotham is. And only days ago we were kidnapped. If I can’t go out by myself, why can you?”

Alfred weighed his words carefully. There were many things at play here - first, the more time that passed with no new intel on the killer, the more agitated the boy was becoming that he wasn’t allowed to investigate. He hadn’t tried sneaking out again, since that night he’d scared Alfred half to death, but it wasn’t unlikely that he would soon. If Alfred didn’t deliver some answers first.

And he was...worried. Afraid. For Alfred. It made sense, after everything. Alfred still regretted that he hadn’t been able to act sooner that day, be the one to free them both from their abductors. Years away from the field had made him sloppy. And he couldn’t pretend that Bruce’s fears were unfounded - wasn’t he deliberately putting himself in the line of fire?

It was for Bruce, yes. To make sure the knowledge of the murderer’s name didn’t die with Jason Johnson, as it likely would if he was left to do this alone. And to further test his trustworthiness, if he was going to be a figure in Bruce’s life. But it felt strange and uncomfortable, the realization that, if anything happened to Alfred, it would first and foremost affect Bruce.

Alfred had never had anyone depend on him like this before. There was a good reason he didn’t have children, despite being well into his forties. He wasn’t cut out for it. But a child had been placed in his care nonetheless, so he would have to find a way to fit the mold.

“I’m afraid it’s one of the grave injustices that come with being young,” he said. “While I understand your concern, I assure you that I am quite safe. I can be rather inconspicuous when I want to.”

He sounded like an overly polite robot. This was not by a long shot the reassurance a kid needed. But that was the instinct trained into him from his army days: when conflict and doubt arose within him, shut off the emotional response and fall back on reason. To do otherwise felt not only useless but detrimental to getting anywhere.

“I was being inconspicuous too,” Bruce argued. “I wore plain clothes. Jason said they looked expensive, but how can anyone tell? And anyway, I wore...I wore mom’s contacts. Bruce Wayne doesn’t have brown eyes.”

“That was good thinking,” Alfred acknowledged, because it was, and chose not to react to the way Bruce’s voice cracked when he said _mom’s._ “But I need you to realize that you disappearing at night, to go to the most dangerous place in the city, with _nobody_ knowing where you are, and me going out for work reasons in broad daylight, are completely different things.”

“Fine," Bruce snapped and shoved out of his chair. “You can leave whenever you want. I don’t care!”

“Master Bruce -” Alfred started to say wearily, but the boy was already gone. 

At least he had taken off in the direction of the stairs that would take him to the upper floor, not towards the back door that led to the gardens. Bruce sulking in his room was preferable to Bruce sulking outdoors, where he might get ideas about sneaking out again. Especially in light of this catastrophe of a conversation.

Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Perhaps the sensible thing to do would be to let him cool off. People in general were easier to reason with when they’d had a chance to calm down, and he couldn’t imagine it was any different for children. But it felt wrong. Even though he had stormed off, the whole argument had stemmed from Bruce’s fear that something bad would happen, and he’d be on his own. Leaving him alone with his fears couldn’t be anything but a mistake. 

He followed after Bruce, rehearsing the words in his head, what he could say to reassure him that he was safe and not planning to leave him any time soon, without revealing where he was actually going. Soon, this whole gang war he'd dragged himself into would be over, and Alfred would have the name of Martha and Thomas' killer. That, he hoped, would be enough for Bruce to forgive him.

Until then…

"Master Bruce?" Alfred knocked on his bedroom door. "Master Bruce, I know you're in there. If you would be so kind -"

"Go!" a muffled voice came from inside. "I'm fine!"

Alfred sighed. "It's okay that you're afraid, Master Bruce."

"I'm not."

"You are. I'm afraid too," he confessed. "All the time. I didn't want to let you go back to school, though Dr Lewis assured me that you were ready. I know how safe the Academy is, and yet I am filled with terror during these hours, because you are away from me, and if something were to happen I couldn't stop it."

Silence.

"I wish I could tell you it's going to be okay, that you have nothing to be afraid of. But I don't know that. So we must let ourselves be afraid, and find a way to live with it."

After a pause, the door opened. Bruce stood at the doorway, eyes red. "Is it okay if I check your heart again?"

"Of course, Master Bruce."

* * *

It was dark outside when Alfred got the call.

“I got word from Nadia,” Jason said in lieu of hello. “It’s happening tonight.”

Alfred glanced around him to make sure that Bruce wasn’t anywhere nearby, listening in. “They took the bait? Are we sure?”

“Yeah. Came to the shop again, told her mom she had to choose today. Listen, I told Nadia the same thing, but - you don’t have to come tonight. You’ve done more than enough.”

Alfred shook his head as he grabbed his car keys and coat. “I’m on my way.”

Jason was silent on the other end of the line for a long moment. “It’s Joe Chill,” he said finally. “The man you’re looking for is called Joe Chill. Just - just in case.”

Alfred stilled. Joe Chill. That name was what he’d wanted. Why he’d gotten involved in this. And Jason, who had kept it to himself until now in claims that it would be too _dangerous_ for Alfred, a former soldier and British intelligence agent, to investigate alone, was telling him because...because he thought he might die tonight.

“Thank you,” Alfred said, doing his best to keep his voice even. “Like I said, I’m on my way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update! Yeah, I'm just as surprised as you are. Next chapter, if we're very very lucky, we might just get to the fighting. Finally. Much thanks for your patience <3  
> As always, feel free to come chat with me on [tumblr](https://acrobatgrayson.tumblr.com).


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